


The Lady and the Wolf

by PockyofNyanyaland (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Attempted Rape, F/M, Genderbending, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PockyofNyanyaland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Jon Snow is a woman, and cannot join the Night's Watch. </p><p>All of the North knows about the beauty that is Jeyne Snow. They also hear the rumors whispered about her, about her cold heart, about her affections for her brother. Little do they know that in a year's time, she will responsible for keeping the North in the Starks' hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Another year has passed, and Jeyne Snow has yet to marry.

It is not for lack of suitors, as one may believe. Jeyne Snow may be a bastard, but she is a noble one. Ned Stark will provide a considerable dowry to any who obtained her hand in marriage. Why, Catelyn Stark herself will give all the fishes in the Riverlands to rid Winterfell of her husband's bastard. If that was not enough incentive, her beauty was well known throughout the North as the face that mirrors the late Lyanna Stark.

And, like Lyanna Stark, she is untouchable.

It is said that there are no gifts, songs, or words that could melt her heart of ice. Since the arrival of her moon blood, Jeyne has refuse every suitor that has reach the fort that is Winterfell. As her namesake entails, Jeyne shows no affection towards the men who come for her. She is courteous, to avoid dishonoring her father, but cold. She does not desire to marry, and Ned Stark does not force her. She is a bastard, and while a noble union might be possible, perhaps to a knight or a third son, her marriage will bring no political advantage.

As of today, her newest admirer is a Frey.

Robb fights the urge to laugh, as the man (could he even be called that?) attempts to persuade his father into giving up his eldest daughter. He is a weak, mangy little thing that Robb is sure he could tip over with a finger. He has heard that the Lord Frey is desperate to get rid of his children, but surely the man could try harder?

Jeyne stands by Ned's side, and listens with a mouth shut and eyes dull. Her gaze passes over towards Robb, and for the first time since the Frey's arrival, there is emotion.

An eye roll.

Robb covers his mouth with is sleeve. He cannot laugh, he tells himself. But then the suitor begins to recite old Northern ballads (which, he is sure, is not suppose to sound like a man constipated), and all bets are off. He starts a coughing fit to cover it up, but it's the deranged look in his mother's eye that gets him to stop. He is ashamed of his behavior, but then he sees the tiny smile on his sweet sister's lips, the fond expression in her eyes, reserved only for him, and his embarrassment is sated.

When the Frey is finished, Jeyne sends their father a familiar look. It is a plea, a rejection, and it is about as subtle as a hail storm. Ned sighs, but there is no hesitation in his answer.

Robb smirks, as the man shakily accepts the rejection and all but runs out of the room like a little girl. Jeyne breathes a sigh of relief, as always. Robb knows that she fears these things. She fears that one day their father will tire of this inane ritual and marry her off, no matter her wishes. He watches his mother stands up, furious at another rejection, at another day with her husband's bastard in her home. Ned nods at Robb, signaling him to leave while he soothes his wife's wrath. Jeyne does not receive the same motion, for they both knew that she would follow Robb.

Once they leave the room, their two gazes meet. The silence is brief, before there is laughter. Great, unstoppable laughter. She expresses her exasperation at her suitor, the way he ran, what he said, and that if another man compliments her 'supple snowdrops,' she is going to join the Silent Sisters for good. He listens and adds his own commentary. He mentions her other suitors, all worst and never better.

“Should we mock these men? Surely, the humiliation they receive from a rejection is enough.” Jeyne jokes, dragging her brother to her chambers by the wrist. “One might say we're being cruel.”

“If they keep trying to steal your heart, I say it is well deserved.” Robb raises his eyebrow, “Especially those that have to travel to the North.”

Her eyes regard him fondly. “All the North knows that my heart is kept under the protection of my brother. They have long given up their thievery."

“Not all of them,” Robb corrects, though her words filled his body with an unknown heat. “Not Smalljon, or the Bolton bastard, or...”

Jeyne hits his shoulder in jest. “Do not remind me! The mere sight of that madmen stills brings chills to my flesh.”

“And Smalljon?” Robb questions, with no little amount of jealousy.

Jeyne grins, “Lord Umber is one of our father's most trusted bannermen. It would have been dishonorable to have turned his son away with such distaste.” Jeyne leans in until her breath could be felt on Robb's chin. “Besides, can you not blame my desire to see how big Smalljon's is?”

Before Robb could respond, Jeyne races away from Robb's grasp. Her melodious giggles filling up the air. Robb, driven by the adrenaline, gave chase to her figure. They dash throughout the halls, watched by the amused eyes of the servants, who were use to the antics of Snow and Stark.

When they reach her room, Robb corners her on her own door. His hands on both sides of her body, trapping her. “I should punish you for your indecent behavior, Snow.”

Jeyne's hands rise up to take hold of Robb's shirt. Her fingers playing with the fabric, teasing him. “How will you do that, my lord? Will it be here? For all the servants to witness my discipline? Or will you have me on my bed for my penance?”

Her eyes do not trail from his. There is a dark desire rooting in both of them, though neither of them care to name it. Robb breathing goes harsh. One of his hands removes itself from it's spot beside Jeyne's side, and opens the door to allow both of them entrance.

When inside, Robb locks the door for privacy. He turns around, and his mouth goes dry at the sight of his beloved sister removing the outer layer of her dress. The servant's quarters, where her chambers reside, is directly above the hot springs. There is no need for her to keep all of her clothes on. He can see the mounds of her breasts and the slender shape of her thighs. She catches his eye and grins, before pulling him onto her bed and on top of her.

When their bodies press and their eyes meet, the ice that she displays for her admirers melts. Alone, they are each others warmth, and while others may near the fire, they will always burn by it's passion.

She lays a hand upon his cheek. It is rougher than it looks, from years of swordplay and hunts, all by his side. He nuzzles against it, enjoying its texture. “I do not wish to marry, Robb," she tells him.

“Then, don't,” Robb instructs into her neck. Jeyne laughs, though it carries no mirth.

“It is a daughter's duty to marry who her father pleases,” Jeyne recites. “If father were to command me to marry...”

“He will not, Jeyne,” Robb promises, his hand grasping her own. There is an intensity in his voice, one that makes her fall silent. He brings his lips to her hand and kisses it tenderly. “He has no reason to cause you such great unhappiness.”

“It is what the Lady Stark desires,” Jeyne protests, “Is the love of his wife not reason enough?”

Robb's eyes darken at the mention of his mother. “It is no more worthy a reason than the love of his son.”

“Oh?”

“Be it the Old Gods or the New, they will receive no mercy from me if they send you away. You will marry for love and for happiness, Jeyne, or you will not marry at all.” _You will not be traded like cattle_ , he thinks to himself. _Nor will you be a brood mare for a beast._

Jeyne hesitates, before finally speaking. “Do you love me, brother?”

“I do.”

“Well, brother who loves me, do you wish for my happiness?”

“I will break down The Wall itself to keep you from misery.”

Jeyne allows herself to basks in Robb's words. “Then give me a vow. A vow to never leave my side. Nothing will bring me greater joy, and I will love no other as I love you. Therefore, I will not marry, unless it is to you.”

Robb chuckles. “As you command, my Lady Snow.” He thinks of his words for a bit, before answering her plea.

“I, Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, vow on my honor as heir of Winterfell, to never leave your side. I vow to love you until the end of my breath. Through the harshest winter nights and the warm summer days. I will devote myself to your happiness, Jeyne Snow.”

Jeyne laughs at the incredulous declaration, and pulls her brother in for a hug. The two wrestle on the sheets for awhile, until Robb is beneath her, and she is in his arms. They lay like this until pounding noises on her door are heard. She hears the tiny petitions of 'Jeyne' 'Robb' and 'Let us in, we know you're there!' from her younger siblings (sans Sansa).

“Perhaps if we don't say anything...” Robb suggests.

Jeyne erupts into laughter at Robb's reluctance. She pushes herself off Robb before standing up. Opening the door, she allows three blurs to tackle her bed. Arya, Bran, and little Rickon bounce on her sheets like little pups, ready to play.

Robb notes that Jeyne does not lock the door, as she does with him.


	2. Chapter 2

“'A lady must always be sweet, pleasant, and patient. She cannot be overly frank, and must limit her talking as to not seem boisterous. A lady must speak with an even tone at all times, and is expected to favor other people's opinions and needs over her own. A lady must...a lady should-' really learn to have some fun.”

“'A lady must not laugh until the speaker gets to the end of his or her humorous story and never laugh at her own humor,'” Jeyne corrects, swatting Arya's nose with her brush in jest.

“Well that's just rubbish! What if the speaker is not funny?” Arya argues petulantly.

Jeyne grins, “Then laugh harder.”

Arya continues to pout. “It's not fair! I don't want to be a lady. I want to fight battles and go hunting with father. How come you get to go and I can't?”

“Because I am not a lady,” Jeyne answers while she finishes removing the kinks in Arya's hair. “Now sit still.” Jeyne grabs a ribbon.

“ Well, neither am I!” Arya declares, tossing her hair around in defiance.

Jeyne laughs, a delightful ringing that only furthers Arya's agitation. Jeyne soothes it by placing a quick kiss on her youngest sister's head. “No, you are most definitely not.” She reverts back to brushing her sister's hair. “But you _are_ a Stark, and things are expected of you.”

“I thought we had Sansa for this stupid sh-hmph!” Arya's sentence ran short as a pale, forceful hand covers her mouth.

“That is not appropriate language for a lady,” Jeyne admonishes. Despite her actions, Jeyne is far from scandalized and merely begins to braid the hair and entwine the ribbon.

 Arya groans miserably. “I don't care! Only Sansa cares about these things. Only Sansa is going to be the perfect lady that everyone wants!”

“Sansa has her strengths. You have yours,” Jeyne advises calmly. “Sansa will marry and have children and run her husband's household. That is the fate she wishes. You are a clever girl, Arya. If you are to avoid such a travesty, you must pick and choose your battles.”

The two share a silent, intense moment. Robb once commented on it, stating that they were communicating through their minds. Jeyne just retorted that he was jealous. Arya finally moves her gaze towards the ground, frustrated. “Like passing this stupid test?”

“Like passing this stupid test,” Jeyne agrees. “And if you pass it the first time, you won't have to take it a second time.”

“This is my fourth time.”

 “...A fifth time, then,” Jeyne revises. Arya's frown was still in place, though. Taking another route, Jeyne speaks again. “And if you really impress the septa, I might be able to convince Lord Stark into letting me take you on a hunting trip.”

 Arya brightens up immediately. Her face taking on a hopeful, pleading look, “Really?”

 Jeyne hums nonchalantly, “Well, this test is only to make sure you've kept up with your etiquette lessons. If you pass, then there will be no need for extra lessons and without the extra lessons, you have so much time on your hands...”

 Arya jumps up excitedly. “I'll do it, I'll pass!” The young Stark girl swears seriously. She envelops her favorite sibling into a hug. Jeyne returns it wholeheartedly and smiles into her precious sister's hair. The two part, and Arya begins listing her lessons once again.

The two continue for the next hour, with Arya reciting her lines and Jeyne only interrupting for correction. It isn't until Arya lands on her final words, that a deep tenor interrupts.

“May I come in?”

Both of them startle at the intrusion. Jeyne stands and bows respectfully, almost expecting Lady Stark to follow. Arya, however, bounces up to greet her father. “Father! Jeyne was helping me practice for the septa's stupid test!”

“I can see that,” he replies evenly . He smiles at his youngest girl, and turns to grant Jeyne an equally fond expression. Jeyne receives it with grace. Arya rolls her eyes at Jeyne's impeccable ladylike behavior. “You're acting like Sansa,” Arya mumbles, which causes her to receive a suble kick in the behind.

Arya gives a little 'oof!' before they share a mischievous grin. "A lady does not mumble," Jeyne informs.

Ned catches it and chuckles softly. “Will you excuse us, Arya? I need to talk to Jeyne for a moment.”

“Yes father,” Arya replies. She moves to the doorway but does not leave. It isn't until she receives an approving look from Jeyne that she makes her departure.

 “Jeyne.”

 “My lord,” She addresses courteously, bowing her head at the right moment.

 Ned stares at her, and for a second she believes she has given offense. Her fears disappear, however, when he moves to her bed and signals for her to sit down.

 Jeyne complies without word. Seconds pass without either of them speaking. There is tension battling the silence.

 “You're good with her,” Ned says at last. His eyes gaze towards the doorway where he last saw his youngest girl. “Arya seems to heed only your words.”

 Jeyne smiles, a cross between her amusement and severity. “She feels out of place in this world. I am not unaccustomed to such sentiment.”

 “She looks up to you,” he ratifies, and speaks as though it is a great achievement. Jeyne looks away shyly, though she is proud of such admission.

 “You are too kind, my lord,” she responds cordially, as if fearing her happiness would be improper. Still, there is obvious contentment on her face. One that causes a myriad of emotions in Ned Stark.

 “You remind me so much of her...” She hears him whisper. Jeyne startles at the comment and turns to her father for explanation. She sees that his eyes were clouded in sorrow, as if he were encountering a dismal memory.

Jeyne stills. In a rare moment, she allows herself to hope. She indulges herself in the dream that her father is speaking of her mother, of the strange woman who haunts her in her dreams. The one who is covered in blood and tears, while the echoes of battle cries rumble through the walls. In her dreams, she hears the clanging of fierce swords and the begging of a dying woman. ' _Promise me..._ '

 “Of who?” She asks softly, afraid of awakening more lies.

 Ned tenses at her voice, but roughly answers. “Of Lyanna.”

Disappointment threatens to overtake Jeyne, for she knew he was not lying. His words, however, carries no reprieve. She has heard them speaking, of course, everyone from Maester Luwin to Old Nan has commented on their damning resemblance. Upon her first meeting with Uncle Benjen, as a young child, he believed her to be a ghost. He had called her Lyanna and held her for what seemed to be an eternity. It took Ned and another man that went by the name Yoren to pry him off.

Jeyne stands up, unable to bear him seeing her blighted hope. She cleans up her vanity, avoiding his gaze. “Is there a reason for your arrival, Lord Stark?”

Ned sighs at his own foolishness, though she cannot see his face. “I've come to talk to you about marriage.”

Jeyne's body goes rigid with fear. It is the same suffering she endures in her dreams, falling into the lake of fire, praying for life or at the very least, a quick death.

“You would do well as a wife," he tells her.

“I do well at a great many things,” Jeyne defends without boast. It is desperation, if anything. “It does not mean I am destined for marriage.”

 “Is it something you fear? I can find you someone-”

 “No-!” The dark realization came upon her. Her hand closes into a fist and tightens.

 “Who is it?” She asks frantically, turning around to see his face.

 Ned seems surprise at her outburst. “Jeyne-” he starts.

 “Who will you have me spread my legs for? Bolton's child? The Freys? Or will you go farther to satisfy Lady Stark's wishes? I hear the Dornes are accommodating towards baseborns!”

 “Jeyne, stop this,” he orders.

“That's what I am, isn't it! I am your bastard! Child of stained mud and of the same worth as pig shit!” She is yelling, shouting louder than she ever has. In fact, it has been years since Jeyne has risen her voice, not since the cruel castigation she received from Lady Stark as a little girl.

“Jeyne! Calm yourself!” Ned commands intensely. He grabs onto her panicking figure fiercely, as she tries to shake him off. She will not listen. The image of her, dragged away from the North, screaming for mercy while Lady Stark looks on in pure victory, brings tremors to her whole body.

Finally, Ned pulls her into a firm embrace. Once there, he hears her quiet sobs. Her struggle s soon grow faint as she breathes into her father's arms.

“Please do not abandon me, Lord Stark,” she begs, “No matter what I've done to displease you, do not leave me behind.”

“ _Please do not abandon me, Ned,” Lyanna pleads, grasping onto his arm as the life drains from her body. “I know I've cause such great suffering, but do not leave us behind.”_

Drawing back from his memories, he looks upon Jeyne and sees not his child, but the bloodstain figure of his sister. When she withdraws from him, the resemblance is more than striking. More than a simple trick of the eye. Her skin, fair like the first snow of winter, is now stained with the red of fresh life. Her hair, black as fine onyx, tied together as to avoid dishevelment, is now loose, wild as if mad. Her eyes, tear stained, though he knew that was no illusion.

It was at this moment, Ned Stark knew he would never force this child to marry. He knows that she belongs in Winterfe ll, like his sister.

He will not fail her, as he failed Lyanna.

“I did not come here to persuade you to marry,” Ned Stark lies. It is a common trait he acquires when concerning Jeyne.

“You did not?” Her voice small, hopeful as it is confused.

Ned's guilt takes over, as he lies once more. “I come to only ask the reason of your reluctance, but I will not force you, Jeyne.”

Jeyne meets his eyes, as if to search for dishonesty. Whether she finds it or not, a blush overtakes her cheek. It is a welcome contrast to the corpse that stood before him. “I seek forgiveness for my behavior, Lord Stark-”

“What is going on here?”

The two of them turn to see the heir of Winterfell at the doorway. His tone is furious, and Ned cannot remember when Robb's anger was directed towards him.

Robb must have been drawn in by the yelling, Jeyne realizes in embarrassment. She immediately turns away, careful to hide the proof of her sor rows. It is too late, however, and he rushes towards her. He tenderly takes a hold of her face. She feels a finger swiping underneath her eyes to trace the dried tears. “Robb, I-”

“You have been crying,” Robb affirms, more worried than angry, though the rage was present. He has forgotten his father's presence at this point.

“I am fine,” Jeyne denies, resting her hand on his, “I have simply distress needlessly, as you are doing now.”

“It is never needless, if it is concerning you,” he declares, with all the passion of young man courting his sweetheart.

Jeyne smiles, and it is another reminder of Ned's late sister. It is not the affectionate grins Lyanna granted him or Benjen, nor was it the rebellious little smirks for their elder brother and father. No, it was one once reserve for a prince who had dare sing a melody of a wolf maid and a dragon...

And she was showing it to Robb. _For Robb_ , he amends, a little sick to h is stomach. He tries not to jump to conclusions; he does not want to see the worst.

Ned clears his throat, and finally, his son addresses him. “Father,” Robb notes curtly. It is an improper greeting, but Ned will forgive such minor grievances as penance for his earlier behavior. He, however, will not turn a blind eye if Robb's love driven actions begin to spiral. He has seen what men do for love, especially a forbidden one.

“See to it that your sister is well,” he commands gruffly, before turning away. He casts one last look upon his blood and continues to march forward.

He will not watch her die.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of the door shutting is deafening. Jeyne winces as if hit, and seeks refuge from Robb's wrath by moving across the room, small as it may be. Robb will not have it. He clutches onto her arm and pulls her to him.

“You were yelling,” He accuses, “He said something to you.”

Robb's temper is a hideous thing; it is a glacial fury that he keeps hidden, locked away for the world to fear its coming. As heir of Winterfell, he must be on his best behavior at all times. Jeyne knows it, loves it as she loves all parts of Robb. She also fears it, as she remembers how his wrath has manifest towards those that brought her great unhappiness. He is truly of ice, an ice so cold it burns.

“It is of no concern to you, Robb,” Jeyne informs him, with more force than intended. She sees the hurt in Robb's eyes, and guilt overwhelms her.

Robb, as a testament to his love for her, insists regardless.

“You were crying, Jeyne,” He reminds her seriously. As if her tears were a grievance to all of the North.

Jeyne denies it. “I have overstepped my boundaries and made accusations towards Lord Stark that were undeserved-”

“What kind of accusations?”

“He...” Jeyne looks pained. “He spoke of marriage-”

Robb face darkens. “If he intends-”

“-But it was nothing more than false worries!” Jeyne declares passionately. She takes his face into her hands so that he can see the truth in our eyes. “Lord Stark would not be so cruel, as to marry me for the sake of doing so. You have said that.”

“Then why are you still hurt?” Robb questions, troubled.

“I am not-”

“You cannot hide things from me, Jeyne.” Robb tells her.

She cannot find a response for the man who knew her better than she knew herself. “I am without reason,” she tells him instead. “For you have diagnose with disease I have no knowledge of.”

There is silence, before Robb responds. “Allow me to nurse the ailment,” He suggests. Confusion washes over Jeyne before she felt Robb's hands reach towards the buttons of her dress. The first time he undoes one, he is met with a gasp.

“What are you doing?” She questions, her voice not hiding the lost of breath.

Robb nuzzles her inner neck. His lips travel to her collarbone and lays a chaste kiss on it. Her body shivers at the touch. “I am finding the root of your illness.” And then he continues downward, until all the buttons are open.

Jeyne allows him to sweep the dress off her, leaving her with nothing but her undergarments, a thin, nearly transparent under gown. It is nothing Robb has not seen before, but his expression awakens her to the notion that this time is not like the rest. He is hungry, like a starving beast in winter, and is desperate for the meal she provides. He grabs onto the straps of her last layer, and pulls it off her.

Her nude body is on display for him.

"Beautiful," he calls her.

If Jeyne had any reason left, she would demand that he leave. She would tell him that no lord should perform such indecent acts, especially to one who carries his blood within her veins. She should tell him this, but she doesn't. Her cunt throbs at the attention.

His fingers brush against her nipples, causing them to harden. Robb does not look at her face, too engross with the body before him. These are the thoughts that keep her silent. She feels him cup her heavy breasts in his palms, weighing them in fascination. She almost laughs at his curiosity, before her thoughts turn wicked.

If this continues, her mind suggests wickedly, I will become his.

She hears him stop when his lips reach her heart. She had not realize his breathing had grown so rough. He kisses her chest while his hands take hold of her hips, keeping her in place. She feels him suck on the area between her breasts, no doubt leaving his mark. She moans lustfully as his teeth bites her flesh, as his tongue licks her sweat.

At last, the spell breaks.

Robb takes a step back as if burned. Jeyne, shaken by the event, sits down on her bed. As if suddenly aware of her modesty, she grabs a sheet to cover up. She looks at Robb, who avoids her eyes.

“You are finished?” Jeyne inquires, before berating herself for sounding like a wanton woman. The allure has been broken, she tells herself.

“I only wish to heal the ache. Does it still need attention?”

Jeyne blushes, “No...I am grateful.” She crosses her legs. She feels the wetness drip between them.

“Would you have me continue?” Robb teases.

Jeyne startles.

Robb, suddenly aware of his lewd behavior, attempts to retract his words. “I only meant-”

“Perhaps another time, Stark,” Jeyne responds, only half in jest.

The eldest Stark stills. It takes only a moment, but he answers. “Whatever you wish, Snow.”

Robb leaves and is careful to cover her figure with the door. When he is gone, Jeyne finds herself running her fingers over Robb's mark, wondering what would happen if he went further, wondering how far she would let him before they fell.

The hours pass and Jeyne lies in her bed until it is time for dinner. Jeyne does not eat with the Stark family. She hasn't since Sansa became aware of her status and its implications on her. When it is time to dine, she does it in her own quarters or with the younger servants. Robb joins her afterwards. They lay in her bed and eat honey pine nuts or custard tarts leftover from the kitchen. Sometimes he would stay the night, and Jeyne would find herself waking up beside his warmth, his arms around her, their lips barely meeting.

Jeyne does not have dinner that night. Instead, she retreats to the godswoods for solace. Her face is hidden by a gray cloak and she is running as fast as her legs could take her. When she reaches the weirwood, great and divine as it is, she is gasping for breath. Her body slumps against the tree in fatigue.

Jeyne's body begins to burn from the shame of her sins. Bastardy, the most obvious crime, incest, or rather, the thought of it, the want of it, was another. Under the shadow of the weirwood, she remembers. She fantasizes about his touch, of the way his hands held her and how his lips marked her flesh as his.

And she so dearly wanted to be his.

Her passions only worsen at night, where she is left defenseless in her dreams. As she elicits the fantasy, Jeyne's fingers trail down to the lips of her entrance and rubs. Her moan, uncontrollable from inexperience, rings throughout the godswoods. She prays no one finds her.

She thinks of Robb's fingers, rougher then hers, larger than hers, forcing their way into her cunt. She imagines him playing with it. Their eyes would lock and he'd kiss her so deeply, so sloppily that she could almost cum from it alone. Her juices begin to stain her fingers but she does not stop. Instead, she delves deeper into her lechery.

Robb would piston his joints in and out of her. They would be knuckle deep and no matter how loudly Jeyne screamed, he will not slow down. Instead, he tells her things, filthy things about her appearance, about her utter lack of honor.

Jeyne, alone in the godswood, mirrors his actions. Her pussy is puffy and violated and she feels amazing and so, so wrong. Close to her release, she allows herself three fingers and thrusts ruthlessly. It hurts for a bit, but the friction felt too good to resist.

Jeyne thinks of him removing his trousers to reveal his hardened cock, wet from foreplay. She thinks of reaching for him, before being ruthlessly halted in her quest. He places the tip into her, and then Jeyne could almost feel it, the stretch...

“Robb!” She shrieks to the skies. Within seconds, her muscles contract throughout her body. Her vision begins to fill with white spots. Her body inflamed with a miraculous high. Through her half lidded eyes, she can almost see a figure...

It is late nightfall when Jeyne finally recovers. She awakens, baffled and ridden with exhaustion. Barely able to see her own hands, Jeyne jolts up. She must have fallen asleep after her activities.

Jeyne stares at the land before her, cloaked in darkness. The stars illuminate only enough for her to see the shapes of large trees and rocks, but anything smaller than a boulder would not be acknowledge. She is afraid, and it is only on the mercy of the old gods watching that she does not cry.

The journey to the Great Keep was not far, but without her sight, it may as well have been Casterly Rock. She knows that if she turned south, she would find the Guest House, and while uninhabited, the entrance is in the opposite direction. The only way in is to break in, and she did not need another offense against her.

The main gate is locked and heavily guarded. She knew her only hope is to find one of the smaller wooden entrances. Walking west, she attempts to clutch onto each nearby tree, careful not to fall. It is not, however, until she hears the crinkling of leaves does her heart stop beating.

She first brushes it off as a trick of the mind, an illusion of her fear.

“Is someone there?” She calls out.

There is no answer. Barely convinced, she sets forth west once again. Then, she hears it again.

Someone is following her.

The crinkling grew louder, which is a sign of their closing distance. She walks faster, and unsheathes her dagger, but the noises only grew. She wonders how long he has been there, if he had seen her before. A side of her attempts reason. Perhaps he is merely a worshiper, or a man sent to find her. It was late after all, and Robb might have gone looking for her.

Then, her bones chilled.

Why did he not answer her?

If he was a friend, he would have answered her when she called for his name. Instead, he remains a stranger. The crinkling gets louder.

Jeyne breaks out into a sprint.

The godswoods are a place of worship, and Jeyne cannot bring herself to believe that she will be harmed under the old gods' watch. She holds onto her dagger, and prays to every old god to forgive her trespasses. She finds hiding against a tree, waiting for the figure to come. The crinkling gets louder, until she is absolutely sure he is literally a step away.

Then, she launches at him.

Catching him off guard, Jeyne attacks from behind and drags her dagger across his throat. She feels the blood drip against her flesh. Her voice gives out a little high pitch whimper at the sensation.

She has killed a man.

“Harry, you alright?” Jeyne hears someone call out. “Did you get the little bitch?”

And it still isn't over.

Jeyne fights the urge to panic. She keeps running, though she is sure it is to nowhere. Her escape has led her in circles, and she is now lost with no direction. Her arm scraps against a nearby tree and she hisses in pain. Touching her wound, she sees that she is bleeding. Jeyne gets up regardless, and it is then that she feels a hand grasp her wrist.

“Well, aren't you a fine cunt?” She hears him say.

Jeyne tries to scream, but his hand muffles her cries. Before she can fight back, he grabs her arm and twists it in the other direction. He forces her onto the ground and rips off her dress. With nothing left to defend herself with, Jeyne struggles. Without a weapon, she kicks and bites and throws punches whenever she can. Finally, her hand manages to clutch onto a rock and slam it against the man's face.

“Fucking bitch!” He accuses as he clutches his bleeding eye. Jeyne takes the opportunity to escape, but manages to latch onto her dress, pulling her down. The rock falls out of her hand. He drags her beneath him, and brings his hands to her neck.

“Let's see how you fight your way out now,” he says, drooling at the young maiden before him. He slaps her for trying to claw at his arms, but it only encourages her to fight harder. Growling at her disobedience, his hands tighten around her throat. Jeyne feels her vision slipping, and her struggles grow weaker.

On her last breath, Jeyne thinks of Robb.


	4. Chapter 4

Jeyne doesn't like sleeping alone. When she's alone, she dreams. 

Sometimes, when Jeyne dreams, she sees the men who burn.

The men who call her Lyanna and chase after her with their inflamed bodies and steel swords. She does not know whether they wish to hurt her or help her, but she never stays still long enough to find out. Jeyne simply knows that they want to find her, to take her to their home. Together they would follow her throughout a wicked castle of endless halls and walls made of rubies.

They beg her, no, they beg _Lyanna_ , to come back to them. They love the young wolf maid, but she does not know what they would do to her. When one grabs her, she screams in pain though her flesh does not burn.

If Jeyne does not awaken, she dreams of a man with silver hair. He holds out his hand, gesturing for her to take it. She does not know who this man is, only that he is handsome and has a voice that reminds her of fresh rose blooms. She listens to him as he promises her salvation. Jeyne is reluctant but then the earth begins to shake, and Jeyne starts to fall through the cracks. In desperation and in naivety, she grabs onto his hand. From there, the man carries her off. She is too tired, too lost in her own fears, to notice that he has taken her to a tower.

He traps her in the room, and vows to come back. He is lying, and she bangs on the door ferociously. She begs with the guards to let her out, to not leave her alone, to not let the man she loves die. She hears screams.

It is in this room that she sees a woman covered in blood.

Jeyne knows that the woman is suffering, or rather, she is dying. The blood is hers, and it is bleeding faster than the gods could control. The stranger's (but is she really a stranger?) body shakes in tremors and she is in great pain.

She is beautiful, for she is trapped in a tower, and no man locks a woman who is not beautiful in a tower.

Jeyne, no matter how hard she tries to free her, to save her life, the woman ends up dead in her arms. Then, Jeyne hears a baby cry.

Normally, Jeyne wakes at this part.

Tonight is different.

The woman in blood is no longer in blood. Her face is no longer covered by red liquid but instead a white veil. She radiates happiness, not pain or fear. They have escaped the tower, or have not yet gone. She wears a lovely white gown with gold embroidery and carries a bouquet of Winterfell's famous blue roses. Two women are attending to her, as Jeyne watches in vague enjoyment.

Jeyne does not know why such an image makes her happy, only that it does. The woman does not seem to notice her watching; it is as if Jeyne is not in the room. Nonetheless, Jeyne can tell that this woman loves her, would die for her even. She rubs her stomach with a loving expression, and then Jeyne understands.

This woman is her mother.

Jeyne remains silent. The woman ignores her, not out of malice but for love. Finally, when both her ladies in waiting leave the room, the woman walks towards her. Jeyne loves this woman as well, her mysterious mother whom she's never met.

The woman's lap is open, and Jeyne rests her head on it. She feels the woman stroke her hair and praise her.

_My beautiful child..._

_My promised princess..._

_My song of ice and fire..._

The woman continues to pour adoration upon her. Jeyne loves it, loves her. Loves her so much that when the woman rings her hands around Jeyne's neck and squeezes; she does not fight her. Her eyes are filled with mercy while her hands were riddled with rage. She transforms into a familiar form, drenched in blood.

Softly and quickly, the woman whispers secrets in her ear that Jeyne forgets as soon as she hears them. The last one, though, Jeyne will never forget.

“ _Kill them all.”_

Jeyne jolts up awake.

Her throat constricts and her breaths are short and ragged. Her heart is pounding against her chest, threatening to tear her apart. Her body is frozen in shock and ice, her sweat having chilled from the northern air. Jeyne's hands shake with a maddening force, and when she tries to still them, she almost throws herself at the wall in frustration.

“Stop moving...” she hears someone mutter. Jeyne looks down to see a mess of brown hair, slumbering underneath her blanket. The tiny figure beside her shivers. He wriggles closer to her body heat, and Jeyne had to comply for her sanity. Bran...she almost cries out loud. She kisses his forehead and sits up to lean against the headboard.

The images of that night flash before her eyes as Jeyne tries to make sense of what happened. Two men had attacked her, had tried to rape her in the godswoods and kill her (though not in that order, she believes in disgust). One she...killed. Murdered, as viciously and efficiently as she could. From her beating heart, she knew the other had not succeeded, but there's a dull pain in her lower regions that makes her believe the worst.

“...Jeyne?” She hears the awakening child murmur.

“I'm awake,” Jeyne informs him abruptly. Bran's sleepy eyes brighten up in recognition. He rubs his eye to further rouse his slumbered state. Despite it though, he wraps his arms around Jeyne as much as he could. Jeyne reciprocates, and kisses the top of her little brother's head. “How long have I been asleep?”

“All night and morning,” Bran's eyes widen. The question seem to ring a number of bells in Bran's head. He jumps off the bed and dashes out the room.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting father! We're suppose to tell him when you wake up!” Bran all but chirps. He runs out the room when Jeyne shouts, “Who's we?”

It's a cold tower, and Jeyne is left alone in the room.

Fortunately, Bran heard her and turn back. “Me, Arya, and Robb! We've been keeping guard.” He sounds so excited, Jeyne thinks, her little knight. The boy disappears from her sight once more, and Jeyne is left waiting for the news.

She does not have to wait long.

Her father and Ser Rodrik are quick to make their arrival. She can only assume they were already on their way. Her heart drops when she sees that Robb did not follow. _You are damaged,_ a cruel voice reminds her, _you are no longer the maiden he desires._ She is surprise, however, to see Theon come in.

“Are you alright?” Ned asks, gently checking her for injuries.

Jeyne brushes him off. “What happened?”

Ned face grew dark, “Some of the Night's Watch's 'recruits' escaped. Benjen sent me a letter this morning. They managed to hunt down most of them but the two men who attacked you managed to hide in the godswoods.”

“What did they do?” Jeyne is afraid to ask.

Ned seem just as reluctant to answer. "Rapists," he tells her. 

Of course they were. “Of course they were,” Jeyne smiles with no amusement. “But what happened to them?” _To me._

“You killed one of them,” Ser Rodrik reveals, quite proudly, in fact. He was the one who taught her how to fight, after all. “Slit his throat right proper, I say. Damn bastard never stood a chance.”

“And his partner?” Jeyne questions immediately, though it is the answer she fears the most. If he had raped her...Jeyne's grip on the sheets tighten. She does not know if she could live knowing that he faced punishment without her knowledge.

“Dead.”

Jeyne takes a deep breath. “You executed him.” It is a statement, not a question. Now, Jeyne would never be able to see her attacker's justice. She is ruined, and she will never have her vengeance.

“I did not.” To her surprise, Ned seems even more distraught.

“Then how did he die?” Jeyne prays to all the old gods, especially the ones that saved her, that it was slow and painful.

Theon clears his throat. Jeyne directs her attention toward the Stark's ward, and finds herself staring at the smirking Greyjoy. “You killed him?” She asks in disbelief.

“I saved you,” Theon corrects, a little put off by her surprise tone. “I shot off his cock before it could enter you. Thanks to me you're still a fucking virgin."

Ser Rodrik wastes no time smacking him on top of the head. “I should have taught you how to talk to women,” he mutters. He gives Jeyne a small nod of apology.

Ned grunts and turns back to his eldest daughter. “Theon heard your cries after his archery practice. He saved your life.”

Jeyne did not bother to hide her shock. Theon Greyjoy saved her life. She looks up at the hostage that has caused her so much misery in the past. The man who constantly reminded her of her failures, of her lineage and its faults. As children, he would pull her hair and call her names: 'bastard,' 'base born.' (He used to call her much more slanderous things before getting into a rather violent squabble with Robb).

And now he's saved her life.

“Well, damn,” she says, mostly to herself.

The three men eventually left her room. Theon had actually parted his ways a good hour before Ser Rodrik and Lord Stark, probably having come visit her to express his smugness for saving her life. Lord Stark had to attend his other business so he left secondly, and Ser Rodrik stays a bit to convince her the merits of carrying a sword at all times.

Ser Rodrik Cassel has always been one of her favorite instructors, and he dotes on her as if she were one of his daughters. It helps that she is friends with his remaining child, Beth. He reminds her that while a dagger is convenient and easy to carry, Jeyne's true talent lies with a much longer blade. She is better than her brother when it comes to sword fighting. She may not have great strength but when she was with sword, she is stronger than any man.

After promising to take his words under consideration, he takes his leave.

Jeyne looks around the room.

How horrible it is, Jeyne muses wryly, to die in a tower.

After taking a bath, Jeyne dresses for lunch with her siblings. She is reluctant, of course, for the last time she shared a table with her sisters was when Sansa had actually called her sister.

It is when she passes by the archery lane that she knew she would be late. Strolling over there, she gently taps on the sole practitioner's shoulder.

And quickly receives an arrow pointed at her throat.

Theon Greyjoy's expression turns sour, but briskly lays down his bow. “What do you want, Snow?”

Jeyne shifts her feet, praying that she could be anywhere else but here. Still, she was raised with manners and she intends to put them to good use. “I never got to thank you for saving my life.”

“I know, I was there when you woke up,” Theon quips with no small amount of bitterness. “Though, I was a bit distracted by your pure and utter lack of belief in my ability to do such an act.” He turns around and draws his bow at his target. Less than a second later, he shoots and lands directly in the center.

Jeyne scoffs. Show off. “I came here to express my gratitude. I have done so.” Jeyne takes her leave.

“Wait,” he commands.

Jeyne wish he would shoot an arrow through her head. Still, she turns and gives a false smile. “Yes, Greyjoy?”

“I don't think I've ever heard an apology so insincere. Do it again.”

Jeyne's smile falls off her face. “Surely, you kid.”

“I kid you not,” Theon enlightens, his arrogance radiating off his face. “Now do it over.”

“If you think that I will-”

“I. Shot. Off. His. Dick.” Theon emphasizes.

Jeyne opens her mouth but cannot speak. Theon's obnoxious smirk seemed permanently plastered on his face, and Jeyne fights the urge to cut it off.

“...Was it painful?” Jeyne grits out.

“He cried out for his mother.”

Jeyne breathes in another frustrating breath.

“Thank you-”

“And you have to call me 'Lord Greyjoy.'”

Jeyne does not fight it any longer. She groans out loud at the ridiculous demand. “You are not Lord Greyjoy!"

“I will be,” Theon reminds her.

“But not yet,” Jeyne retorts. “Your father still lives.”

“You call Robb a lord.”

“We speak in jest! Besides, he will be lord no matter what. You could still die before you make it make to the Iron Islands.”

“'Lord Greyjoy' or the apology does not count.”

“Fine! Thank you, Lord Greyjoy, for saving my life.”

“I am wonderful human being who has been blessed by the Old gods, the New, and the Drowned One.”

“You are a wonderful human being who has been blessed by the Olds Gods and the New.”

“And the Drowned One.” Theon reminds.

“And the Drowned One,” Jeyne finishes with a pout.

Theon grins happily at her declaration. “You are too kind, Snow. I accept your gratitude.”

Jeyne has to fight all her rage to avoid killing the man before her. Instead, she takes a slightly kinder route. “Do you always practice archery so late?”

Theon nods, and then prepares to string another arrow without looking at her. “It takes practice to be so good,” He informs cockily, though Jeyne could tell how proud he is of his craft. “You should be grateful. Any other man would have killed you in the process. What were you dong at the godswoods so late anyways?”

“I came there earlier to pray,” Jeyne explains, “But then I fell asleep and when I awoken, it was dark.”

Theon scoffs, more in ridicule than disbelief. “It must have been some intense prayer.”

Jeyne blushes at the reminder of her self-pleasure. “It was,” she agrees faintly.

Theon raises an eyebrow but does not question her on it. Jeyne is grateful. She had no doubt that with further prodding, a man as lustful as Theon would discover the signs.

“How did you even find me, anyways?” Jeyne asks curiously. "When the man muffled my cries, I was sure no one would come." 

Theon tenses at the question but doesn't answer. Jeyne watches him string a bow, firmly and surely. He lets go, and even with her feelings towards him, Jeyne could not deny Theon's skill. It is six arrow from what she sees, and Theon has hit the center dead on.

“You are amazing,” she says breathlessly.

Theon stills, “Good that you notice.”

“Can you teach me?” Jeyne asks, the words leaving her mouth before she realizes she has spoken them.

Theon's surprise is evident, but there are no traces of reluctance. “You know how to use a bow and arrow.”

“Not like you,” Jeyne admits. “Not as quickly or as accurately. I remember when we were children, I shot an arrow at a deer and only hit its leg. It laid there suffering until Lord Stark made me put it out of its misery.”

Theon grins. “I remember. You cried for days, and vowed to never eat meat again. Robb joined you, and soon all of Winterfell was reduced to eating like rabbits.”

“And then you shot a rabbit, took its head right off, and force fed me.”

Both of them smiled at the memory. As if finally deciding that their time would be better spent on instruction, Theon speaks. “Well, what are you waiting for? Grab a bow and get into position.”

Jeyne laughs at his authoritative voice, but complies. She finds a lighter one suited for women and young children, and brings it over. As soon as she gets into form, Theon places his hands on her.

Jeyne practically jumps. Theon backs away accordingly. “I am adjusting your form,” he defends, in case Jeyne chooses to attack. “It's off.”

“It's the correct form.”

“Traditionally, yes. But different people have different manners of shooting and you have to find the one that fits you best. Now, let me,” Theon educates her, a tad bit frustrated. Jeyne hates to admit that he is right. She moves into the 'proper' position and lifts up her bow arm. She feels Theon move her around, and she finds herself swaying into a more comfortable setting.

“Good?”

“Good,” Jeyne reluctantly admits. Jeyne takes a shot, and she is not surprise (though a bit disappointed) to see it aim much closer to the center than her normal shots.

“Okay, now do it once more,” Theon orders and hands her another arrow. Jeyne takes and looks at him curiously.

“What?” Theon asks, a bit unnerved by her staring.

“To be honest, I thought you hated me.”

Theon stares at her incredulously. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you told me you hated me.”

“I did?”

“Yes, when I was six and you were eleven; you pushed me in the mud and told me you hated me,” Jeyne muses as she corrects her stance again. “You also assaulted me off my horse, stole my clothes while I was bathing in the hot springs, and I think you pulled my hair a few times.”

“Shit.” Theon wants to use the arrow and stab himself in the knee. Was he really that horrible?

“Yes, there was some of it in the mud.”

“No, I mean,” Theon sighs, he groans into her shoulder and Jeyne tries not to jolt at the physicality. “I didn't mean it, you know? When I said I hated you.”

“What else could you mean by 'I hate you, you bastard'?”

“...You beat me."

Jeyne raises an eyebrow. She sets her bow down in outraged. “Pardon me? I don't remember ever laying a hand on you outside of sword practice,” Jeyne thinks for a moment, “Except when Robb tackled you and I had to pull you two apart.”

“Exactly!” Theon exclaims.

“I was trying to stop Robb from killing you!” 

“No, the sword practice. You beat me every single time we sparred. It's why I got into archery. It was the one thing I could do better than you! I was laughed at for weeks every time I got defeated,” Theon justifies.

Jeyne stares at him incredulously. “That's why you've been pushing me around for years? Because I beat you? I've beaten Robb loads of times and he's never laid a hand against me! Hell, I've almost beaten Jory! And he's proposed!”

“Well, I can't just propose to you! Robb would kill me on the spot!” Theon splutters out indignantly.

“So because you could not propose and you decided to torture me?” Jeyne shouts back, equally insulted.

“Yes!”

Silence. The second the declaration was spoken, the two of them froze in their spots. Neither of them knew the correct path to take, and when Jeyne opens her mouth to speak, she is cut off.

“It'll be dark before you know it. If you want to improve your marksmanship, we should get back to practicing.”

Jeyne does not question him further and gets back into position. “You have great aim, to be able to shoot someone's manhood in the dark,” she comments awkwardly. She raises the bow up.

Theon gives her an agitated look. His breath felt hot against her neck. “Thanks.”

A silence pasts between them, before Jeyne bursts out in giggles. She sets her bow down and leans forward. Before Theon can question her motives, she kisses him on the cheek.

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispers. It is the first time she has willingly referred to him as a lord, and even Theon cannot resist the smile forming on his face. Theon playfully pushes her away.

“Get back in form,” he orders.

Jeyne complies, though she puts a bright smile on display. She feels Theon's arm direct her into proper instruction. Neither of them see the darkly dressed figure watching them.

Robb slams his fist against the stone wall. He retreats back to his room, furious at what he had just seen. It is not until his mother greets in the hallways does he realize that he's bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love it when I reread a chapter for corrections and then inspiration strikes two chapters ahead.  
> Coming next time:  
> Flashback scene! We find out when Robb realizes he was in L-O-V-E. And there's a Cat/Jeyne scene (not romantically...) Though funnily enough, when I first watch Game of Thrones (I didn't read books yet), I thought that the look Jon and Catelyn shared meant they were having an affair. Random.


	5. Chapter 5

Robb was twelve when he realized he loved Jeyne as more than a sister. 

Winterfell had been plagued with rain for several days then, and none of the children were happy, even Sansa, who already spent most of her time indoors. The poor weather forced all of the children to accommodate more lessons, specifically the lessons they were all lacking in, or did not enjoy. 

Arya had been forced to perfect her embroidery, Sansa needed extra lessons in maths and household management, Bran was being tutored in history, while Rickon, still but a babe, was given extra care with Catelyn. Robb was given every opportunity to learn the duties of a lord, while Jeyne had hidden away in the library, working with Maester Luwin on her Valyrian. She seem to have a natural gift for the language, bringing much pride to the maester who said she might as well have been a Targaryen herself. 

Still, the lack of physical activity was getting to the children. It did not help that they hardly got to spend it with each other. They were all becoming restless in their time of constraint. Robb, especially, who had grown a love of riding and lance and of course, swordplay. 

Robb dared not complain. He was not a child, but the heir to Winterfell. On his way back from his lessons, he heard noises in the armory. Peeking inside, he saw two figures. One he recognized as Theon and another as a serving girl. He tried to recall name but to no luck. He needed to work on that. His father knew the name of every man, woman, and child within these walls. Then, Robb heard moaning. 

It was obvious what they were doing, or planning to do. The girl had her legs spread and Theon's pants were down. Without any words, the teenager threw the girl's legs over his shoulders and position himself against her entrance. Theon once told him that there were two types of way to screw a woman. There was making love, where one had to be tender and loving, and there was fucking, and if Robb had to guess as he watched Theon thrust into that girl over and over again, this would be fucking. 

The noises were echoing as Theon ruthlessly pounded into the girl. Theon’s hips twitched and began to move out of his control. He was close. The serving girl was as well, judging by how she began to move alongside his hips. Theon buried his head into the girl's chest, shaking and pounding away, and his partner dug her hands into his shoulders and screamed as she came.

When they were finished, they got dressed suddenly. Robb noticed that not once did they look each other in the eye. When they turn to the door, Robb broke out into a sprint. He distantly heard the servants tell him to stop running through the halls but he could not listen. Instinctively, he retreated to his room, his body flushed and hot. 

While in his room, his thoughts grew on what he just witnessed. It was lowly and dishonorable to treat a woman like that! Robb berated. If it were Jeyne, he would never be so crude. He would make love to her in a bed and attend to her every need. He would kiss her like she was his queen and worship her body as if she were a goddess. As Robb's thoughts continued, he realize he was getting hard. Robb flushed in embarrassment. He rationalized his deviancy as a result of boredom and lack of activity. Because of this, Robb devised a plan. He could not stay still any longer, or else his thoughts would worsen.

When nightfall came over Winterfell, and most of the adults, already adapted to the sound of thunder and pounding waters, slept, Robb snuck out of his quarters. He made his way to servants' chambers. Lighted only by a single lamp, he navigated his way to his desired location. 

Once there, Robb opened the door, and found his beautiful sister sleeping soundly in her bed. He placed his lamp on her table side, and slipped into her covers. Robb proceeded to wrap his arms around her, and pressed his face into the croak of her neck. Her smelled changed slightly from before, he noted to himself. It no longer held the fresh, crisp scent of Winterfell's forests, but the smell of musky weirwood and dry leaves. Underneath it all, it was still Jeyne, so he continued to inhale. 

“You're like a dog,” Jeyne murmured drowsily. She turned to him, still safely resting in his arms. The two adolescents came face to face, and Robb could see from the candlelight that Jeyne's eyes were still partially asleep. 

Robb kissed her nose. 

“Why are you here?” Jeyen groggily asked. She snuggled further into his body, practically purring at the body temperature he was radiating. Robb chuckled and held her tighter. 

“I have plan,” he whispered, a mischievous grin forming on his face. 

Jeyne giggled, “What sort of plan, my lord?”

“A plan of adventure, but it requires great secrecy and we must act in haste,” Robb divulged dramatically. He crawled out of her bed, dragging her with him. She groaned, but followed without complaint. Before either of them knew it, the two dashed through the halls. They hid behind pillars and loosely placed equipment, their giggles unheard due to the pounding rain. 

They sneaked upstairs. On their way to Robb's destination, Jeyne tackled her brother to the side. 

“Jeyne? What are you-hmph!” Jeyne covered Robb's mouth with her hand. Robb could not hear it before, but the sounds of footsteps were now present. After some time, they started to grow faint. 

Jeyne grinned proudly when her hand left his mouth. Robb smiled back, before leading her again without thought.

“What are we doing?” Jeyne finally asked. 

“We're rescuing the captive princes and princesses!” 

Jeyne laughed, “And who is keeping them captive?”

“Lord and Lady Stark!” 

Jeyne raised an eyebrow, “Your parents? That's not very original.”

Robb pouted, “I wasn't finished! My father and mother's bodies have become possessed by rainwater demons, threatening to take over Winterfell! They hope to flood the North with water so that the people shall be forced to sail East, and become slaves and eunuchs!”

“Which one would you be?”

“Not the point!” Robb argued without answering. 

Jeyne laughed again, a welcome sound to monstrosity outside. There was no thunder yet, but Robb knew that wouldn't last. It had to happen now, Robb strategized seriously. 

They found their way to Bran's bedchambers, who was awake and dressed, as if waiting for them. The two proceeded to smuggle him out, before heading towards the girl's chambers. They went after Arya first, knowing she would be the easier of their two sisters to convince. They were right, of course. As soon as they woke her up, Arya knew something fun was planned. She sprung up from her sheets to join them as they went looking for Sansa's room.

Sansa was tough, but they knew they couldn't leave her. Despite her reluctance, she eventually left with them, claiming that she needed to keep them out of trouble (which translated into not wanting to be left behind). She whined the whole way, praying to the Old Gods and the New that they would not get caught. Arya almost lunged at her. 

Finally, they reached the entrance. Without any hesitation, Robb and Jeyne pushed the doors open to reveal a land, ravaged by pounding waters, skies filled with fields of gray. 

“What do we do now?” Bran whispered. 

Before any of them answered, Robb runs into the rainfall, leading Jeyne by the hand. Bran and Arya share a look before following their elder siblings. Together, the three Starks and one Snow danced in the waterfall the heavens brought.

Sansa stood on the sidelines, begging them to stop. “You'll catch a cold, Bran! Robb, stop it! This isn't proper behavior for the future Lord of Winterfell! Arya, it isn't ladylike! Jeyne, mother will be angry!” Her cries becoming weaker and weaker. Robb was sure he heard some envy in her tone. He cared little for it, not when he could see Jeyne's dress soaked to the point that her body was practically bare. 

Arya grinned maliciously, and scooped up a pile of mud in her hands. She walked menacingly towards Sansa who took a step back in fear. “Arya, I swear, if you throw that-!”

Arya threw it. 

Sansa's eyes bulged out in fury as the mud splattered all over her nightdress. She followed her little sister into the rain and scooped her own vengeance. Sansa never really had good aim, though, and Robb watched in horror as it landed on Jeyne's face. 

Guilt watched over Sansa, but it is quickly covered with mud ball to her face. It was thrown by Robb himself. Sansa screeched angrily. She threw one back at Robb, who dodged it quite easily. It hit Jeyne again. Rob threw back and it landed on Bran, whose small size caused him to be knocked over. Bran retaliated by throwing a low ball. At that moment, however, Jeyne had rushed in to help him and ended up slipping, which ended up with the mud being thrown at her. Jeyne smashes the mud into Bran's face. All the children were covered in dirt, and no matter how much rain poured down on Winterfell, it was never enough. 

Before long, it was simply a matter of Jeyne and Robb vs. their younger siblings. Sansa and Arya began double teaming to take down their brother (“He has the best aim!”) and Bran using his small size to play on Jeyne's weakness to plan sneak attacks (“Zigzags, Bran! Zigzags!”). 

As another hit was about to land on Robb, Jeyne covered his body with her own. The action caused both of them to tumble on the ground. Their lips were so close, the water made it feel like they were kissing. Neither of them made any move to get up. Robb could feel Jeyne's privates pressing against his, her growing breasts touching his chest. They really were close. If Robb tried, he bet he could kiss her... 

“STOP!” Robb's mother shrieked ferociously. Her voice carried throughout the yard, muting out the sounds of the deafening rain. All of the children stopped what they were doing. Jeyne and Robb immediately stood up. From the sides, Robb can see Jeyne shaking in fear. 

“Get in, now,” She hissed, rage seeping into her command. Lord Stark wasn't there, having traveled to the White Harbor for business.

The kids ran in, their heads hung and their hearts pounding. Sansa was in tears, and Jeyne looked close to fainting.

When they were inside, the five of them were motioned to stand in a line. Servants marched towards them, draping them with warm blankets that were a welcome from the chilling air. 

Catelyn Stark was absolutely furious. “Whose foolish idea was this? You all could have gotten sick! Or hit by lightning, or worst! Do you think we forbid you from going outside because we wish to punish you? Look at all of you! You look like the dead!” None of them spoke. 

Realizing that no one would talk without prodding, Catelyn turned to Sansa, “Sansa, I know you had nothing to do with this. Whose idea was it?”

Sansa shook fearfully. “I...” Arya glared at her, knowing full well that Sansa was going to snitch on them, or at least Jeyne. Not wanting her favorite sibling to get in trouble, she almost took a step forward to take the blame. 

“Mom, I'm cold and I just want a hot bath,” Sansa cried, not looking their mother in the eye. Arya looked at her in surprise. Sansa knew either Robb or Jeyne was responsible, having heard them plan it. She thought for sure Sansa would blame Jeyne. “I am sorry, but I've been working so hard all week. I know I have to be punished but why are you being so mean?”

The anger of their mother's face faltered. But it turned stone cold once more. “You can all take a bath when you tell me whose idea it was.” 

"Please mother-"

"Not another word," Catelyn forced out. Sansa stayed silent, realizing her pleading would get them nowhere. 

Arya turned away, defiant as always. Catelyn was not getting her to speak. Bran shuffled his feet, but didn't look up once. It would take hours to get him to talk, if at all, and she loved her children too much to do that to them. She turned to Robb and Jeyne. Robb held onto Jeyne's hand, and Catelyn is reminded of the intimacy she witnessed earlier. 

“Which one of you did this?” 

Robb did not hesitate, “I-”

“I did.” 

Jeyne did not hesitate either. Robb's attention snapped at her. He immediately refuted her claim. “Jeyne is lying!” 

“I was bored of staying inside for so long,” Jeyne further clarified, “And I thought it would be fun to-”

The slap came as an attack. 

Jeyne clutched onto her cheek meekly, feeling the burn the strike left. Everyone stared in shock at what they just witnessed. Their mother, though cold at times, never once laid a hand on Jeyne before. To everyone's surprise, Jeyne did not cry or whimpered. She simply composed herself and hung her head in further shame. “My apologies, Lady Stark.” 

The red haired woman took a deep breath. “The servants will prepare a bath for all of you. I want you to thank them for taking time away from rest to attend to you.” They were led to the washing rooms unwillingly. “Jeyne is to stay awhile longer.” 

Robb did not leave Jeyne's side. 

“You will not allow her to bathe?” Robb asks, his voice unwavering. “What if she gets sick?”

Lady Catelyn did not look at them. “Do you think so cruel?” She questioned, gravely. Robb felt taken back, for it was the first time his mother had ever spoken to him so harshly. “She'll bathe after I speak with her, unless you would like to wait and wash her yourself.” 

Robb's strong demeanor fell.

Jeyne removed her hand from his, “Robb, please leave.” 

“Jeyne-”

“Please,” she pleaded further. Robb reluctantly abided to her wishes, but not before sparing a suspicious glance at his mother. It was only when he left the room's occupants' sight did he turned away from the servants. The women pleaded with him to follow but he waved them off. Finally, they relented. Robb watched the events through the door's slim opening. 

In the room, it took all of Lady Stark's strength to look at her husband's bastard. 

She stared at the shivering body. Analyzed the Stark features that almost seem divine on her. Her hair was darker when wet, which made her snow white complexion even paler that it normally was. Her blue lips were trembling, but plump and inviting, her gray eyes were shaped by long lashes that made her look like a doll. Catelyn briefly recalled the late Lyanna Stark, whose beauty was well recognized as the most lovely woman in Westeros, rivaled only by Cersei Lannister herself. If there is any truth to the resemblance between her and Jeyne, Catelyn had much to fear. 

“You will grow into a great beauty,” Catelyn predicted, her voice as solemn as a prophet. “And my son will be the first to see it.” 

This statement startled Jeyne, who, for the first time, looked Lady Stark in the eye. She almost gasped when looking into those blue orbs. It was as if they were burning through her soul. 

Lady Stark beckoned her to come closer. Jeyne cautiously made her way. She motioned Jeyne to sit, and Jeyne felt forced to comply. Robb, from the doorway, could not hear what was being said. 

“My son will become the Lord of Winterfell, that is law. Do you realize that?”

Jeyne tensed, “I am aware of his lineage, Lady Stark.”

“He will marry a noble bride, who will not be you, and she will bear him many children, none of which will be yours. If you stay, you will care for them, maybe even do what I cannot, and love them. But they will never be yours, Jeyne Snow.”

"I understand-"

"You don't," Catelyn denies. "Women in love rarely do." 

“Lady Stark, you are being cruel,” Jeyne's breathing was growing harsh as she imagined such a fate. Tears began to form in her eyes. 

“For every night he is wed, he will share their bed and not yours. For every night he is wed, he will take her until his seed fills her with his heir. Her body will swell with his child; a child that will know you only as their father's bastard sister. You will gain no name and live with no honor.” 

“Do not do this,” Jeyne pleaded desperately. “Do not do this to me, Lady Stark. I beg of you.” 

“Robb is kind and honorable, and unnecessarily cruel. He will tell you he loves you, but they're wasted words, for even if they are true, they carry no meaning. There is no life for you by his side.” 

“You are breaking my heart!” Jeyne declared, crying in spite of herself. She would rather take a thousand lashes than listen further. 

Lady Stark, for the first time in her life, embraced her. She held Jeyne firmly in her arms and pressed a kiss into her scalp, as if she were a mother. “You are a beautiful girl, Jeyne, and you are smart. Your beauty will bring you suitors and your mind will open opportunities. It is your choice to suffer.”

Jeyne does not wait to be excused. She ripped herself away. The bastard girl ran out of the room in tears, with Catelyn watching pityingly. She did not feel guilt, however. Catelyn Stark already knew that her words were an act of mercy. 

She could not love that girl, but as a woman, she can spare her the grief of raising another woman's child. 

It is Robb who catches her in his arms when she ran out the door. She clutched onto him, sobbing into his shirt. Robb did not need to know what was said, only that Jeyne was crying. 

“I am here,” he soothed, “I am by your side, always.” 

His words only seemed to make her cry harder. Lady Stark came out of the room, and did not seem surprised to find him, still damp with rainwater. Before he could yell at her, she tenderly spoke, “Take her to the baths, Robb. You will both catch a fatal death if continued like this,” before walking away.

He stood there in shock, before turning back to his whimpering sister. His beautiful sister who sought protection into his arms, praising him with words of her affection. As he listened clearer he can hear her sobs of “I love you” over and over again. Robb clung onto her tighter. 

“I love you,” he responded, clutching onto her icy figure. “I love you so much, Jeyne.” There was no greater truth in the world. He loved her in a way greater than any man should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback scene wasn't suppose to end that way. It was suppose to end with Robb staring at Jeyne's scantily soaked body, and Robb thinking 'damn, my sister is hot.' Then...shit started to fly. But it wasn't suppose to be five pages of flashback. On another note, when I was correcting this chapter, I realize that I forgot about Theon. I had to add him after the chapter was finish. Since I can't imagine Theon joining them (He would've been around 15-16 at this point and playing in the rain with children is freaking creepy no matter who you are), so I decided to put him in a more...natural setting. 
> 
> Next Chapter:  
> Innuendos...The most proper innuendos you will ever see.  
> Jealous!Robb.  
> Angsty scene between Beth and Jeyne.


	6. Chapter 6

Boys are too young to know the meaning of fear or consequence. It is the reason why Robb spends ten minutes trying to convince his mother that he is fine. His knuckles may be bruised and his fingers may be bloody but those are flesh wounds. His mind is in too much turmoil to care, and he finds the sting a welcome distraction from what he had just witnessed. 

Theon had taken advantage of his sister's distress. Robb watched miserably as the ward wrapped his dirty hands around his sister's fine waist, touching what was not his. He recalled the sickening way Theon whispered into her ear while running his hands on her. Jeyne was accommodating, he will acknowledge, but it was a side effect of her thankfulness. Theon saved her, Robb bitterly. He saved her when Robb wasn't there to. While he should have been happy, the very notion made him furious. Theon was a beast, and Robb cannot believe he left his sister alone with him.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he realizes his mother is still talking. He tells her to stop worrying, that it is nothing. She will not have it and the argument continues. 

When Robb finally complies Catelyn walks with him to the healer's room to make sure he goes through with it. It makes him feel even more like a child, and he almost lashes out at her because of it. The thought of his father finding out stops him. 

They reach the healer's room, and his stomach drops when he sees that the only available nurse is Lord Rodrik Cassel's daughter, Beth.

Beth Cassel hates him. 

The auburn hair girl bows respectfully when they enter but does not make an effort for any hospitality. Robb can actually hear her grimace. If he recalls, she is not fond of his mother either. In fact, with the exception for Jory and Jeyne, she pretty much hates all of Winterfell. She doesn't even like her own father. He always wondered why such a misanthropic being chose to take on a profession whose soul purpose is to help people. 

“Perhaps I can come at another time...” Robb begins.

“No,” Catelyn refuses him. Catelyn glares at him before turning to Beth. “My son is injured.” 

“Did he get a paper cut?” Beth mocks. “I've seen it happen with boys who are unfamiliar with the ways of books.” 

Robb glowers at her, “My hand hit the wall.”

“Oh, what a tragedy! Did it put up a good fight?”

Robb also wonders how his sister, whose heart carried more love and beauty than the Mother or the Maiden, could ever call such a vicious woman her best friend. 

His mother seem to have lost patience as well. “Attend to him until all signs of infection are no more,” she commands. 

“Yes, my lady,” Beth complies, but her frown is present nonetheless. She turns to retrieve her bandages and ointment for such cases. 

Catelyn leaves him to go to the dining hall and demands that he attends. She will not have him missing lunch as he did breakfast. For further incentive, she tells him that her father has demanded Jeyne be there. This alarms Robb, who questions its validity. 

“After previous events, your father would feel more at peace if knew where Jeyne was at all times. As far as I know, Jeyne has not disagreed.”

“You did not fight him on the matter?” Robb asks in surprise. 

Catelyn looks away. Robb would have assumed she felt ashamed if it were not for her next words. “No woman would wish such a fate to another, my son.” 

Guilt washes over Robb, and before he could apologize, his mother leaves the room. He hears Beth scoff and he bites at her. “What?”

Beth says nothing. She walks over to him with no great speed. When she finally arrives, a great pain is place on his knuckles. He makes a slight noise, before silencing himself to keep his pride. 

“Pure alcohol,” Beth teaches, “It kills the demons that cause infection.” 

“Are they being caused as much pain?” Robb mutters. 

“Oh, I hope not,” Beth responds honestly, “They are such fine creatures. They thrive on human stupidity and perchance to cause harm to themselves. Once they sink their teeth into you, they eat until the flesh of man darkens with death.” 

Robb feels his hand burn. “I fear I cannot find the same joy you do.” 

“There are few people who can understand the role of death in the cycle of life,” Beth sighs sadly. She gives Robb a derisive look. “And the few worthy ones who do are often stifled by the lackluster glory of heretics,” she finishes quickly.

Robb stares, “Did you just call me a-?”

“No,” Beth denies immediately, “I would never insult the future Lord of Winterfell.” 

Robb glares suspiciously. 

“I would, however, acknowledge that he might one day lead the North to ruin following the whispers of false lords,” Beth rubs the cloth against Robb's hand roughly. Robb tries his best not to wince. “And that perhaps he is unworthy of some of the honors bestowed upon him.”

Robb narrows his eyes. Like father, like daughter. Ser Rodrik does not need a son when his daughter had balls. 

“You have a sharp tongue,” Robb comments. Beth starts to bandage his hand. Her soft hands are a surprising contrast to her harsh demeanor.

“My father would rather me hold a sharp blade,” Beth responds coolly, “Unfortunately, I proved a greater disappointment to him than when I came from my mother's body with no cock.”

Robb remains silent. 

“No response, my lord?” Beth sneers.

Robb does not know how to respond. He learns from his father that it is best to keep silent during these times. He may be a man but he is no fool. Years of watching over Jeyne has made him aware of the trials of women, especially those who cannot bear a son to carry their husbands' names. His mother was lucky to have an heir on her first pregnancy, and even luckier to have four healthy births following. 

Robb avoids her eyes, and distracts himself by reading the labels on the jars next to Beth. Greyscale, pox, redspots, the grey plague...Some of the jars had something akin to skin in them. Various body parts of the dead are kept in little bottles and tubs, all for the good of the living. The healer's room always smell like nothing, and he wonders if this smell, not the rotting of corpses and searing flesh, is the true scent of death. 

“You're done,” Beth informs as she finishes tying the cloth together. She stands up and returns to her little workspace as if nothing happened. Robb looks at his hand with a sense of numbness. While getting up himself, he hears Beth hum a song about love and death. Robb sees her put another jar into the basket, this one with a finger covered in blisters. 

“Who was that?” Robb asks despite himself.

Beth raises an eyebrow, as if wondering what he was still doing alive. “Some vagrant wandering outside of Winterfell's forests. I found him while looking for herbs. He died while I was treating him.” 

“I am sorry,” Robb tells her. Beth stares at him blankly, as if he were some dullard. It would have been offensive if Robb didn't understand why. Beth's reaction to death has been legendarily nonexistent since she was thirteen and played midwife to her sister's corpse.

“Everybody dies,” Beth warns him. “Old men, young men, little sisters. I try not to cry over strangers in the woods.” 

As if worrying he would never leave, Beth walks over and opens the door. It brings in the first sign of light that Robb has seen since he entered the room. 

“Please leave, my lord.” Beth requests coldly. “I have work to do.” 

Despite his time in the healer's room, Robb arrives in the dining hall a good five minutes before Theon and Jeyne. He immediately wishes he hadn't. 

When Jeyne and Theon enter the dining hall, they are not fighting. An odd sight for those who knew them (and everybody in Winterfell did, unfortunately). The two have been at each others throats since the Stark ward arrived all those years ago, and at one point, they were forbidden to even have contact without an escort present. To further fuel the gossip, Theon walks Jeyne to the girl's table with a smile, before strolling over to his seat across from Robb. 

When he sat down, he did not dive into his meal. Instead, it took a full minute for Theon's eyes to leave Jeyne's figure. Not one for stealth, the ironborn lad continues to throw glances in Jeyne's direction, as if hoping the girl would turn to meet them. Frankly, Jory finds it absolutely fascinating that Theon still lives and breathes. 

Robb's bloody grip has been tightening around his knife ever since the Stark ward and bastard walked into the room. Every bone in his body is fighting the desire to kill Theon where he sat. 

“I see you've made peace with Jeyne,” Robb speaks. His tone not displaying any murderous intent, though his body spoke a different story. 

Boy looks ready to lunge, Jory observes, his eyes darting back and forth the two boys.

Theon breaks out of his trance before grinning. Jory feels to urge to punch it out to avoid the bloodbath that is to come. “Her gratitude was well appreciated.”

Jory eyes Jeyne's chest as she bends over to pick up a knife she dropped. “Her gratitude is great, indeed,” he agrees.

Robb stabs his knife viciously between Jory's fingers. 

“But of course, such gratitude should only be received with even more caution,” Jory amends quickly, pulling his hand away from Robb's striking distance. “Or at least secrecy,” he mutters.

Robb sends Jory a warning look.

Theon, however, is too caught in his own high to catch the signs around him. “Ah, I agree. However, the same cannot be said about her...” Theon spares a glance at the floor, or rather the bottom of Jeyne's backside. “...sincerity.”

“Her sincerity?” Jory repeats. He is torn between indulging Theon (and his own amusement) and the deadly look in Robb's eyes that says 'there will be lynching.' He spares a glance in Theon's direction and his eyes widen in recognition. “I suppose that is rather fine...sincerity. Of course, I prefer her gratitude.”

Robb literally growls. 

“Her sincerity cannot be seen, at first. It needs to be felt, pressed against you and eager.” 

Jory had trouble letting the water flow down his throat. “And was the sincerity eventually...felt?”

Theon grins, “Well, during our practice, I believe it was.”

“And she did not oppose your appreciation to her...sincerity?” Robb asks, his voice rough and desperate for answers. 

“I believe her to be too distracted to notice any appreciation,” Theon takes a sip of the water and purses his lips, obviously preferring wine. “Though, I'm sure there will be activities in the future where she'll be able to see my appreciation in full volume.”

“Obviously it must not be that big for her to disregard it,” Robb counters. Theon glares and opens his mouth to speak. 

“The food is getting cold, best we get to it now,” Jory changes the topic. Robb follows with a question, taking Jory's neutral stance as a game changer. 

“Did something happen that I should know about?” Robb all but interrogates. “You were gone for a long time.”

“Ah, look at that bread. Shame for it to go to waste...” Jory tries again.

Theon finally picks up on the tension. Instead of settling Robb's nerves, however, Theon smirks. Jory knows the two well enough to see that Theon will not back down from a fight, especially from Robb.

“Many things,” Theon answers innocently, “Though, for a woman whose maidenhood I help protect, speaking further would have made last night's actions for naught.” 

It was the wrong moment to take a drink of water. Jory finds himself coughing furiously, while his fellow guardsman attempts to lessen the ailment. Some people start staring, and amongst them is the treasure itself. Jory motions to the hall members watching that he is fine. He sees that Jeyne gives him a small, worrying look before turning back to her original conversation with her Arya. 

When Jory's throat is clear, he discovers that Robb's eyes are intense and inflamed. “I would have you choose your next words carefully, unless you wish to lose your tongue.” 

Jory tenses, as do the rest of the men and boys at the table. “Perhaps this conversation is better suited within close doors,” Jory hisses. 

“Oh, you would 'have' me, will you?” Greyjoy mocks, not taking the boy seriously, “It seems I am not the only one you wish to 'have.'” 

It was a low blow, and once it was said, silence washes over the table. 

Jory sees others watch from the side, waiting to see what happens next. Other tables have started to notice, and Jory prays that they could settle this before it becomes a scene. 

“Careful about your words,” Robb cautions. His voice low and laced with threats. “Or they will be your last.”

“Careful about what?” Theon questions darkly, “You certainly take no caution towards you indiscretions!”

His accusation carries throughout the dining hall. Now, everyone has noticed. Stares from every table, follow along. Some, the ones who cannot hear the conversation, are curious. The others, who can read the tension and the others who can hear the fight, stalk the argument, waiting for a blow. 

Lord and Lady Stark watch, but do not interrupt. They do not jump to conclusions, but as the words get louder, their faces grow grim. 

“Your tongue is laced with poison,” Robb denies vehemently, though there's a trace of fear found in his voice. 

“My tongue speaks as every man and woman in the North has!” Theon hisses out. “Do you think we are all blind? Do you think that we are half-wits?”

Robb cannot control his temper any longer. He stands up to assert his dominance. “I remind you, Greyjoy, one more word of these shameful accusations and treaty be damned, I will cut off your tongue myself!” 

Theon stands up to match his presence. They share a look. Robb dares him to speak, dares him so that he could attack, grab the knife that sat between his bruised fingers and cut out his tongue for the world to see. For Jeyne to witness his passion and devotion to her. 

Theon is tempted, and he will not deny that. Yet, a look into Robb's eyes makes he realize that the boy, no, the man, before him is serious. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ned Stark prepare to move and end this. He then casts his eyes over Jeyne. She has risen from her seat and watches the whole scene with apprehension and fear. When their eyes meet, he sees her plea. 

Please, her gaze tells him, please do not say another word.

Theon fantasizes about how good it would feel to smash Robb's face in. Then, he imagines the pain on Jeyne's face when he does so. He thinks about what happened earlier, how accommodating Jeyne was to his advances (though she did not recognize them as advances at the time) and how it would have all been a waste if Jeyne watches her brother's blood be spilled. 

If he said the words, the words whispered and thought, but never spoken out loud. The words that would humiliate Robb, but would absolutely ruin Jeyne. If he said them, it would kill Jeyne. The curious gazes would turn suspicious. The observations would become accusations. The talk of the North would be its scandal. At best, Jeyne would be sent away, Robb would be married. At worst, he couldn't bear to think it. Theon takes a deep breath. People wait along the sides to see what happens.

If anybody asks, Theon Greyjoy left that room to avoid breaking the treaty amongst his family and the Starks. He left because Robb has always been a brother to him, and he would not ruin such a bond because of filthy rumors. He left because he is man, and Robb is just a green boy, and men don't fight boys. 

He wonders if Jeyne knows the truth. He wonders if Jeyne knows that while every bone in his body called for an attack, it is Jeyne's sweet smile and sad eyes, her relieved expression and playful laughter, that made him stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this chapter had Jeyne/Beth angst which I promised in the last chapter. I did not like it, however, and decided to remove the scene. I proceeded to rewrite this chapter NINE FREAKING TIMES because I just wasn't happy with anything. And then, I was like 'fuck it, Robb's gone, and I want to write more of him.' So it turned into a Beth/Robb scene. This took three rewrites to finish this scene. 
> 
> This leads me to my next announcement. I won't be posting the next chapter until the 24th. I'm really sorry. It's just that I've been swamped with work and my summer school and I haven't been able to prepare the next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

At five days, it's the longest Jeyne and Robb have ever gone without speaking.

Jeyne is avoiding him, and Robb has made it easy for her by not seeking her out. Jeyne was absolutely furious with what happened with Theon. At the end of the meal, Jeyne had stormed out of the dining hall enraged and refused to attend dinner. Even Lord Stark couldn't command her otherwise. The next day, Jeyne announced to Ser Rodrik that she will be attending embroidery lessons with the rest of the girls instead of swords practice. He was adamant in refusing her request, repeating what he said to her earlier, that after what happened to her she should be _more_ inclined to take the sword. However, one look at Robb's upcoming figure and he relented. The day after, Jeyne took to racing with Arya around Winterfell. On the third day, when he finally gathered up the courage to confront her, Jeyne left to gather herbs with Beth. The last time someone interrupted Beth and Jeyne's bonding ended up with the pox.

Robb considers waiting for the week to end before seeking Jeyne out. His father makes his decision for him when he corners his oldest son after sword practice. Robb tries his best to stay calm, to not avoid his gaze when they meet. He even manages to lead his father into the damp halls where they could have some privacy. It is here that Ned announces that he has business to attend at the Last Hearth, and wishes for Robb to travel alongside him.

“Is there a problem?” Robb asks calmly. His father rarely traveled outside of Winterfell, and while he made occasional visits to his bannermen's houses, he normally sent envoys. The problem must have been great for him to travel personally.

“The Lord Umber has found fault with Lord Bolton's son, claiming he took his daughter's honor and wants his head,” Ned reveals, sounding rather amused. “If not, he claims the boy should fight the entire Umber family to prove his worthiness.”

Robb raises an eyebrow, “And that requires you to travel such distance?”

“The maester of the Last Hearth can be very persuasive,” Ned responds, “Besides, I fear Lord Umber's impulsion may lead to unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Do you think Lord Umber would be so rash?” Robb questions seriously. “That he would go against your command?”

Ned chuckles lowly, “No, Greatjon likes a good fight as much as any Northerner but he would never betray me.” Ned casts a weary hand on Robb's shoulder. “Caution is wise, but the North is stronger together. You must trust your bannermen when you are Lord of Winterfell, my son.”

The instruction is grave and heavy with truth that Robb will take to heart. “Is there a reason you are taking me, father?” Robb asks politely.

“It'd be good for you to learn mediation,” Ned claims, his voice not indicating any ulterior motives. The look in his eyes, however, suggest otherwise. “One of your duties is to keep the peace in the North. The support of a keep is stronger if the material is good. If the Lords know who you are, they are less likely to find false rotting in the structure.”

“Of course, father,” Robb replies. He absorbs the words like a second skin. Despite his gratefulness of the opportunity, he is reluctant. The days without Jeyne have tested his self-control, and he finds even the most honorable task to be a disappointment. “I am honored. When shall we take our leave?”

“At the end of the week,” Ned answers gruffly, “After breakfast, when the air is beginning to warm. It will make travel easier for the horses.”

Robb nods his understanding. “Then, I must pack immediately.” He heads forward to take his leave, but is held back by the rough, guiding hand of his father.

“You should visit your sister,” he suggests, his tone just an octave difference to be an order.

Robb's stands frozen in the halls. Still, he composes himself, afraid of drawing a reckless conclusion. “I will inform all my siblings of our departure.”

“Perhaps you should inform Jeyne first?” Ned clarifies, but does not call Robb out for avoiding the command. “Her quarters are the closest.”

Robb stares, a little more flustered than he cares to admit. He wonders if this is the reason his father cornered him here. Robb almost chuckles. He thought he was so clever, too. “Perhaps tomorrow, during the next meal. It will save time if I could tell them in one sitting, or wait until gossip travels.” And in the walls of Winterfell gossip travels fast and dies faster.

“Time is short for the living. Come. I will walk with you,” Ned commands, already marching ahead.

Robb's head aches as if a thousand pins are stabbing through it. He follows along begrudgingly, a little lag to his step. He hopes his father doesn't notice.

He does.

Ned arches an eyebrow at his son. “Is there conflict between you two?”

Robb chokes a bit, and immediately digs his mind for an appropriate response. He can't tell his father the truth, at risk of breathing life into that vicious rumor. Besides, he's not sure how well 'the lack of Jeyne's presence in my life has made me furious with lust and if I am to be in the same room as her, it will take all the power of the Old Gods and the New to stop me from taking her then and there' will go.

Not very well, Robb bemuses. “The week has been stressful for both of us," he says instead.

“Theon made quite a scene the other day,” Ned comments seriously. It's not like his father to dance around an issue, and the lack of purpose makes Robb uneasy. “Do you know why?”

His father is definitely not going to make things easy for him. “I found his behavior to be distasteful,” Robb answers truthfully. His father can smell his lies before it even leaves his mouth. He settles for half-truths.

“His behavior towards Jeyne?”

Robb startles at the assumption.

Ned casts a piercing on his oldest son. “I saw them enter the room together, like everybody else in the hall.”

That doesn't mean he heard anything, Robb thinks in relief.

“Jory was also very informative.”

That meant he heard _everything_.

If possible, Robb's movements become even more rigid. Robb fights the urge to find the Stark guardsman and bash his head against the wall before joining the Night's Watch himself to avoid such embarrassment and misery. Robb sometimes forgets that Jory is loyal to his father first, and their friendship second. It is a quality that Robb once admired and now abhors.

Nonetheless, backing down is an admission of wrongdoing and defeat. Robb stands his ground. “He should not have been speaking about Jeyne like that.”

“I heard he speaks about many women in that manner. Why is Jeyne any different?” Ned defends his ward. Robb knows it's a trap, but he can't help his surprise. His father despised such behavior, and whipped him as a child for imitating Theon's words. In fact, he recalled it being one of the few instances his mother and Jeyne joined forces together to plot his punishment.

“Jeyne is not just some woman!” Robb declares, offended by the mere notion. He's already lost his temper several times before and will not do it again in front of his father. He thinks about the next couple of words that come out of his mouth. “Regardless of her name, she is still a Stark. It's in her blood, and I will not have my sister be dishonored that way.”

Ned stares at his son intently, and Robb worries that he let something slip, or said something that brought unease. Finally, Ned sighs. His father is a merciful man and when they come across a few wooden boxes, he motions Robb to sit down beside him.

“Robb, give yourself some time to think about your words,” Ned orders softly, his voice without accusation or anger.

“I don't understand,” Robb denies.

“I meant, will you not have your sister be dishonored or will you not have the woman you love done so?” Ned clarifies seriously. The implications are said without judgment, and no matter how much truth they carry, Robb cannot help but feel insulted that they were said.

“There is no difference,” Robb almost hisses out. “It's not a crime to love my sister, father. I thought you desire such an outcome when you brought her here.”

His father's face grows grim. For a second, Robb fears he will use his words as evidence for whatever punishment Lord Stark feels fitting, one that will involve a marriage or an exile. It is an extreme move, but not impossible. Finally, he speaks.

“You sound like my brother.”

The statement is odd, wistful almost, but carries a dark, foreboding tone to it. Ned's expression is still solemn, but he nonetheless strays away from anything that would imply ill tidings.

Robb pushes the issue carefully, knowing the wrong move could have dire consequences for him and Jeyne. “Was Uncle Benjen close to Aunt Lyanna?”

“I believe they were...” His father gives a small smile. “But Benjen wasn't the one I was talking about.”

Oh.

That meant he was talking about Brandon Stark, his uncle who was killed by the Mad King. Ned and his mother hardly talked about him, and from what he heard throughout Winterfell was that he was a handsome man, a great fighter, and had 'wolf's blood' in him. At one point, Old Nan, aged too far along to care of consequences, had bluntly stated that Brandon was a hot-headed fool, and that Ned should have been the first son all along. At least, he wouldn't have strangled himself in rage, the former nursemaid recalled bitterly.

“Old Nan says that I resemble you well,” Robb reminds in partial denial. It made him proud to hear it. Ned Stark is a legend for many things, all good.

'You're still a child,' the old hag will say affectionately, her voice crackling up in fatigue, 'But you're your father's son. Good thing, too.'

“She would know, wouldn't she?” Ned agrees fondly. He rests a hand on Robb's shoulder and casts sad eyes onto him. “You are my son, Robb. But sometimes...your wolf blood comes out, and it is as if my brother has come back to life.”

The statement is not said as kindly as his other words. “How so?” Robb asks curiously, though there is dread in his stomach.

“When you are with Jeyne,” Ned informs calmly, coldly, _miserably_. He sounds like a broken man. “When I see the way you look at her and the way she looks at you.”

“She is my _sister_ ,” Robb emphasizes pleadingly, for himself and for Jeyne.

When his father chuckles, it sounds defeated, and maybe even mockingly. “Brandon said the same thing when I confronted him. Lyanna never had to say a word. She was always proud of the effect she had on her brother. The _control_ she had over him. Everything she wanted was handed to her on a silver platter and if not, she would take it herself."

“Jeyne is not like that!” Robb argues. It's one thing to follow up on a possible scandal, it is another thing to insult his Jeyne. Not even his father had that right.

“Then the Gods are merciful,” Ned almost immediately responds. “For her heart is pure.”

The comment is ice on the worst burn. Robb looks away in embarrassment. “What happened between them?”

“Lyanna and Brandon?”

“Yes.”

Ned tries not to dwell on the explanation. “Lyanna died. Brandon died. The bards sing tales of blood and death and burning men, but the ending remains the same.” Robb cannot fathom how men soaked in war must feel when they listen to the glory of their tales, spoken like a high honor. “Their deaths will always haunt me.”

The Lord of Winterfell looks more fatigued than ever, as if Robb had taken the life out of him. “Go to your sister at your own time if you please. But we are mere minutes from her door.” The Lord of Winterfell takes his leave on the way back.

“Do you believe Jeyne and I to share their fates?” Robb wonders thoughtfully, mostly to himself. Will they burn like their predecessors? He muses mournfully.

Ned turns and casts a weary eye. “I asked myself that once.”

It happened after Ned caught Robb and Jeyne buying trinkets from old peddlers outside of Winterfell. The merchants were from the South, and had no knowledge of the two's identities. They had assumed they were a couple, and neither made an attempt to correct them. He vaguely remembered his family trips to the South, where Lyanna and Brandon had taken advantage of their anonymity and claimed to be sweethearts.

“What was the answer, father?” Robb inquires, relying on his father's guidance as if he is not a man of his own.

“You already know it,” Ned informs to Robb's inquiry. Robb looks up to him, eyes filled with caution. “If I had thought there was a risk, I would have married Jeyne off to the furthest Southerner who would take her.”

“And if I protested the arraignment?”

“I would silence you.”

The threat is there, and Robb wishes he was foolish enough to miss it.

In the end, Robb follows his father's advice and seeks out Jeyne for the first time is days. He enters her room with great heed, but does not knock to warn her. He's never done it before, and the mere notion does not occur to him.

Jeyne is napping, laid underneath the layers of fabric with a book resting by her side. He heard that she had taken to sleeping in the day, her nights often plagued with violent memories and screams waking up the dead. The incident must have wounded her soul in ways beyond a healer's hands, and Robb is more regretful than ever for not being there for her. Quietly, Robb locks the door, wary of the noise that follows. He walks over to her to remove the book and carefully places it on the floor. Now, with their lack of distance, he drinks in the sight of her, her presence like water in hateful desert.

“Why are you so lovely...?” Robb marvels. Her lips barely part for breath, and it is almost as if he is staring at a corpses...a truly divine corpse. He brings his face closer to hers (“to observe,” he warns himself without much strength). She looks more fatigue than ever, the dreams taking its toll on her health.

As her eyes begin to flutter open, he kisses her.

He means it to be soft, gentle as a lover. But days, no _years,_ of desires has made him impatient. When he presses his lips against her mouth, the action is passion itself. He forces her lips open and thrusts his tongue inside, tasting every part of her. His arm grips her thigh and roams up and down.

When Jeyne's half open lids begin to fully awaken, she remains in a dream. She smiles against Robb's lips in her delirium.

“Robb...” she inhales against him. His scent a greater welcome than the fresh baked goods from the kitchen or the bloom of winter roses. 

“I'm here,” he replies soothingly. He brings them closer together, and his hand travels underneath her dress lewdly. 

Tears well up in Jeyne's eyes as she strokes her palm against his cheek. There's an unusual gleam in them that Robb is familiar with but can't place. “I missed you so much.

“I know,” Robb tells her honestly. He presses his lips against her hand. “I know.”

“I missed you so much,” she repeats, holding him harder. Her voice is dark when she says “I missed you so much I thought I would go mad.”

Robb gasps and releases his hold her while she whimpers. The sound causes his cock to harden. Still, he finds some strength in himself to deny her. Robb kisses her forehead one last time, his mouth lingering on the taste of her as much as possible.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers desperately. “I'll be there when you wake up.”

 _Liar_ , she accuses spitefully. But soon his inviting touch rubs her back to rest and the promise eases Jeyne's struggles. Her body falls into the same restful state. She dreams of Robb, dreams of all the times they kissed with no innocence.

Jeyne wakes up alone. She touches her lips, feels the heat of another and the taste of a man. Her body is warm with pleasure while her heart beats with longing. She wonders if it was all dream, another fantasy conjured up by her demented mind. Robb is not here like he promised. Jeyne's hands tighten into the sheets. He left her. He left her. He left her, again and again and again and again-

The door opens. 

Jeyne glows in elation at the arrival.

Robb is here.

He brings her almond cake and some warm milk. He is kind and loving and his behavior overwhelms her with guilt. She believes the memory to be a dream she's imagine from longing and cannot look Robb in the eye at first. How disgusting of her.

“I missed you,” she says instead.

“You've been avoiding me,” he acknowledges. Jeyne flinches at the accusation. She missed him, she missed him so much it hurt. Robb doesn't blame her, however. “I understand. What I did that day...I wasn't thinking about how it would affect you. That was unforgivable.”

Jeyne nods to herself, eating a piece of the cake. It's sweet taste melts on her tongue, and is one of her favorites of all time. “Thank you.”

Robb smiles at her, and she tries to smile back but can't. “You were avoiding me first,” Jeyne exposes before hating herself again. It was going so well, too, Jeyne thinks begrudgingly, but she is a fool who could never be happy.

Robb stares at her, and Jeyne almost apologizes for her outburst. Instead, Robb beats her to it. “You're right.”

“Go on,” Jeyne responds immediately.

Robb gives her a smile but his eyes were dark. “When I saw Theon come out of the godswoods with you in his arms, your dress ripped into shreds, I was disgusted. I was disgusted with the men who did that to you. I was disgusted with guards who let them in. I was disgusted at myself for not being there to protect you.”

“But it wasn't your fault!” Jeyne protests. “You couldn't have known!”

“I don't care!” Robb admits. “I should have been the one to save you. I should been the one at your side. When I heard what happened from Theon, when I saw the men’s maimed bodies, I felt weak. I felt _unworthy_ of you.”

“Is that why you didn't come when I woke up?”

Robb nods, he sinks his face into his hands, unable to look at her without shame.

“But I wanted you there.”

Robb whips his head up to see Jeyne's tearful eyes.

“I didn't want Theon or Ser Rodrik or even father. I wanted you,” she chokes out. “And you weren't there.”

The guilt washes over Robb like rainwater, only this time, it soothes his wounds of envy and self-loathing. He takes Jeyne into his arms and apologizes to her, over and over again.

Jeyne forgives him. When they part, Jeyne feels awaken with optimistic. Perhaps, things could stay the same. Perhaps, everything will return to normal and everything will be okay again. “The oranges will be in bloom by the end of the week. Would you like to come with me to pick some?” She offers sweetly.

Robb smiles falters and Jeyne wonders if her hopes were for naught. Robb sees her doubt, and hastily attempts to rectify the situation.

“I love to, Jeyne. But father is taking me to the Last Hearth for...” He tries to think of the word his father used. “...mediation.”

“...Mediation?” Jeyne repeats slowly.

“There are problems with Lord Umber's daughter and Lord Bolton' son.”

Jeyne's expression brightens up at the topic. “Oh, I've heard!”

“You have?” Robb asks in disbelief.

“Yes, I receive their crow a few days ago. Lady Willa was bragging to me about how she took Lord Domeric's maidenhood,” Jeyne laughs.

Robb could not find the words. “That's what happened..?”

“Oh, do they think it's the other way around? Lord Umber would have killed Domeric if that was true,” Jeyne informs casually. “The Umbers are a passionate lot. They like to make bluffs in hopes of getting a better reaction.”

Robb suddenly realizes why his father choose this event of all events to bring him. He knows there was no possible way Robb could mess things up aside from taking the matter too literally. “It was a test.”

Jeyne seems to realize this as well. She laughs and offers Robb some of the warm milk. “Well, you will certainly pass now.”

“If only you are always there to guide me,” Robb muses. He drinks the milk, the warm liquid adding a pleasant feeling to his belly. “Do you write to the noblewomen often?”

“The Mormonts, of course. Some of the Umber women. Alys from House Karstark. Of course, Lady Flint of Widow's Watch. The two Manderly girls are great joys. I've considered sending a raven to the Neck for the eldest Reed but I already have quite a few letters to attend to already.”

The information stuns him almost to the point of silence. “I didn't know you were so involved.”

Jeyne awards him with a calculated smile. “It's good to make friends.”

It feels more like advice than a reason.

They chat with each other until all the cake is gone and then some. When they finish, Robb kisses her on the cheek (avoids her forehead in fear of awakening past memories), and says that he wants her at swords practice tomorrow. “I also need you to help me pack,” he requests for the future. He also expects to see her at dinner.

“So demanding!” Jeyne complains playfully, and tackles him to the floor for an embrace. They stay like that for awhile, and Jeyne clutches onto him tightly, as if fearing he would disappear on him. “I'll miss you,” she promises.

In her mind, she convinces herself that things haven't change. Robb will always come back to her. 

Before their mealtime, Robb travels to Theon's chambers for a talk. Theon allows him in with no small amount of reluctance. The younger man bears no sword and his only weapons are his hands, but Theon is Ironborn, and he knows how dangerous that can be.

“I will be leaving with my father to the Last Hearth by the end of the week,” Robb reveals to him.

Is he bragging? Theon wonders spitefully. Robb is lucky to have a father who cares, who expects great things from him. His father has not once sent a raven or an envoy since Theon was taken away. He might as well be dead to him.

“Father says that a lord needs to learn mediation.”

“I bet he does,” Theon retorts sarcastically. “I bet he'll teach you about being a good little lord with your pretty robes and worshiping bannermen, you son of a-.”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Huh?” Theon startles. Robb's face is grinning, but not cruelly. He seems genuinely happy with his decision. “Have you gone mad?”

Robb grins and rest a hand on Theon's shoulder. “I know we haven't gotten along recently, and I want to amend that. You have always been a brother to me Theon, and I will not have a simple argument ruin our friendship. We will both be lords one day, and each lesson I learn I want to learn beside you.”

The reasoning is sound and kind, and Theon finds himself feeling touched at Robb's declaration. Despite his joy, he is suspicious. “You are very forgiving,” Theon tests out.

Robb sighs, and looks pained. “I was jealous,” he admits to Theon's astonishment. “I should have been the one to save Jeyne. I should have been the one to walk out of that room to spare her. You were being a good man and I behaved like a fool.”

Theon visibly relaxes at the declaration. It was the _perfect_ thing to say to Theon. The compliments swells up his head while Robb's apology feeds his esteem. The ironlad laughs and hits the Stark's back joyfully. “Don't dwell on such a small matter. I would be honored to attend beside you.”

“Thank you, Theon.” Robb acclaims. They share a hug, forgetting old wounds as if they happen years ago. Robb leaves Theon to get dress for the meal, keeping his head held up high and a victorious smirk on his lips.

No one is taking advantage of _his_ Jeyne during his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …Cause Catelyn didn't raise no fool. Word. ;)  
> I said before that I wrote a Ned/Robb scene and then I deleted it. But then, I waited to the last minute and I couldn't really think of anything else, so I wrote it in. Anyways, I'm back. Yay.


	8. Chapter 8

“I would not suggest that shirt,” Jeyne advises leisurely. “It's too clean. Too proper. Lord Umber will be calling you a lady before the day is through."

Robb looks into his mirror and contemplates her words. Finally, he grabs another shirt on his bed. A hand covers his own immediately.

“Not that either,” Jeyne smirks, and brings their faces closer, her lips barely untouched by Robb's, “It's too worn out. Lord Bolton will be insulted.”

Robb chuckles. “Would you have me nude?” He undoes his shirt nonetheless, heeding her words like scripture.

Jeyne gets up sluggishly, her body dragging her way to his drawers. When she turns her back on him, Robb can see how revealing the sleeping gown truly is. While the fabric covers her entire body, the fabric is a needle's width in cloth, and hides nothing from the wandering eye. When she turns, shirt in hand, he can see her nipples piercing through the fabric. It is far too cold to dress the way she does, but Jeyne has hardly ever been affected by the winds of the North.

“I thought you had forgiven me,” Robb murmurs.

“What do you mean?” Confusion etched on her face.

“You have accepted my apologies, but take part in my torture,” Robb pulls her into an embrace, causing the bastard girl to gasp. “How am I suppose to resist you when you offer yourself like this?” He asks, moving his hands downwards to cup her unprotected cheeks. When he squeezes, Jeyne cannot control the lewd moan that escapes her lips.

Robb leans in to extract more delightful sounds from her, only to have Jeyne's hands keep the distance. It has the opposite effect, though, when Jeyne's hands end up pressing against his bare chest. She strips the fabric off his shoulders until it falls to the ground.

“Raise your arms,” she orders, ignoring his jokes and smothering eyes. Robb obeys without argument, and allows her to dress him as she would a child, or perhaps, a husband.

“This is the shirt you made,” Robb remembers.

Jeyne startles before blushing, “How can you tell?”

“I can never forget a gift from you,” Robb answers her seriously.

Jeyne smiles to herself, and slowly dresses him from the bottom up. When she reaches the top, Robb grasp her hands and brings it to his lips. He presses a kiss onto the back of her hand before bringing her fingers into his mouth. The boy’s lips wraps around her fingers, sucking desperately in between quick and sloppy flicks and swirls of his tongue. The pink muscle flicks the very tips of her fingers before sliding between them.

When he releases each join, an audible 'pop' could be heard, and Jeyne shivers in arousal.

“I intend to continue this,” Robb promises without shame. He takes in the sight of her body underneath the sheer fabric. He pushes back her hair from her face, making Jeyne shiver. “Wear a gray dress. You belong in Stark colors.”

Jeyne nods hesitantly. She runs her wet nails down his chest. “Come back soon,” she pleads with him. “I don't feel safe when you are not around.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because every moment without you tempts me to stop my beating heart,” she confesses softly.

Robb does not have to tell her that he feels the same.

Soon the two departed for breakfast, with Jeyne having to stop by her chambers to change into the gray dress Robb liked. With great regret on both parts, the two found themselves separated for the few hours Robb had left in Winterfell. Robb had his duties to attend to, and Jeyne had her own chores.

Amongst the highest demand on her list is her commitment to her sister. Before the Stark party left for the Last Hearth, Jeyne sought Lord Stark on behalf of Lady Arya.

“Lord Stark, I ask only for you to consider the truth,” Jeyne persuades while she follows him before they reach the courtyard. Ned sighs and turns to face her. He can smell the citrus in her hair, perfumed by orange peels for Robb's departure. She looks lovely enough to make any man cry tears of their leaving.

“Arya requires no sword for her survival. The guards will see to her safety.”

“To say that a woman needs only a man's protection is a complete insult to what happened to me,” Jeyne claims seriously. She clutches onto her father's arm, an act that is punishable by harsh beatings but one that Lord Stark allows in private. “I am fortunate for Ser Rodrik's tutelage. If not for him, my body would be sunken into the soil and feasted by the worms.”

“Theon saved you,” the liege lord reminds. “Is he not a man?”

“He is, and I have not forgotten,” Jeyne agrees with no signs of reprieve, “But it was I who slit the throat of the first pig. A skill set that is lost on most women because their fathers think that a guard will always be there to protect them.”

Ned cannot help but feel belittled at the insinuation. “Only their fathers? I seem to recall that Arya has a mother who will oppose your recommendation more than I.”

Jeyne's embarrassment, though present, is quickly replaced by the foreshadowing of praise. “She does, and you are most just to include her in your judgment. But Lady Stark is a wise woman of high lineage. Surely you can convince her the values of a sword?”

The implication, Ned sees, is that Catelyn will never disobey her husband's orders, no matter how much she disapproves. It is a lesson taught to all highborn ladies in their young life. Ned has never found much value in such an education. Before being sent to the Vale, Ned had been primarily raised by his mother, a severe Northerner who was left to her own devices while her husband played politics in the south. He has ordered Catelyn once, and that was when she pushed for the identity of Jeyne's real mother.

A situation that will never happen again.

“Think about Arya,” Jeyne pleads, “Think about her in the godswoods at night.”

Her argument is sound enough that Ned finds himself nodding without realizing it. “I will make Arya's case to Lady Stark and we will discuss the final details with Ser Rodrik.”

Jeyne practically glows with happiness, “Thank you, Lord Stark! You do not know how happy your kindness will make the both of us.”

If she were of higher standing, he is sure he would have received a kiss as Lyanna did to their father whenever she got what she wanted. Such thoughts, though, made him mournful. Casting a weary eye onto her appearance, he branches out onto a new topic of conversation.

“How is your relationship with Robb?”

Ned is impressed when Jeyne does not react.

“We are well, Lord Stark,” Jeyne replies innocently. “He has been most kind to me! To speak freely, my lord, I cannot help but be grateful for such misunderstandings.”

That sparks Ned's interest. “Grateful?”

Jeyne pretends not to notice his disbelief. “It is painful for me to speak of such scandal, my lord, in fear of dishonoring Robb. But I must appreciate their results. It seems my desirability has dwindled since the spread of such news?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see one of the serving girls discretely slip into another hallway, desperate to share the new piece of gossip. By the time he returns, Ned is sure that Winterfell will learn about the 'ruse' Jeyne has developed to ward off suitors.

“Yes, we have received no ravens for your hand.”

Jeyne feign ignorance.

Ned Stark is proud of Jeyne, of how clever she is. And though she reminds him so much of Lyanna, of her ambition and her temperament, she is not nearly as self indulgent. She cares more for her honor than Lyanna ever did, and the honor of the ones she love above her own. Such traits could make the difference between life and death.

“Keep in mind that rumors fade," Ned instructs. "And the truth remains, no matter how well hidden." 

“Pity,” Jeyne responds dully. She turns to her father with a sweet smile, hiding any ulterior motives. “Will you be the one to tell Arya of the good news or shall I?”

“It was your proposal.”

“Which is nothing without the action behind it. I do not wish her to forget your part in this.”

Ned gives her a small smile for her flattery, though he is not one to be fooled by sweet words. “I have many duties to complete. I trust you will relay the message well.”

Jeyne obeys, and leaves to speak to Arya. He stares at her figure, and feels torn between pride and guilt. Had she been his trueborn daughter, or even his good child, she would have made a wonderful wife and lady.

Eventually, the time had come to say goodbye. It is not the first time Lord Stark had left for Northern business, but it was the first for Robb. His mother had spent most of her morning making sure he was properly educated on the merits of being careful and safe. Robb had made the mistake of joking about his life, causing his mother to speak her worries in a more _forceful_ matter.

The horses were saddled and ready while the cases of supplies, food and other necessities were already packed.

“The journey should take a three days at most. Two if the weather is fair and there are no complications. We will only set out camp once.”

“Quite a lot for mediation,” Robb notes.

“Lord Umber has been inviting me to come to the Last Hearth for years now. Trust me. We will not leave unscathed.” It is the closest thing Robb has ever heard to a joke from his father. “Have you talked to your mother?” His father asks, taking a look at his red haired wife who was being informed of all the provisions taken.

“Yes, she was very insistent.” Nagging was a more appropriate term, but Robb would never say such a thing about his lady mother.

“Insistent?”

“No blood. No whores. No drinking,” Robb reveals embarrassingly. “And no listening to Theon. What does she think goes on these trips?”

“She has the gist of it,” Ned replies almost playfully. “Though instead of Theon, it's either Wendell, or Robert, or Greatjon.” Robb looks in surprise. Before Robb could question him further, Ned changed the topic.

“There's a lady waiting to say her farewells.” Ned nods his head in a particular direction. "You should see to her." 

Robb follows his father's gaze to see Jeyne, dressed up prettily in gray and waiting for him. Robb gives his father a respectful departure and leaves without saying another word.

“I was worry I wouldn't catch you in time,” Jeyne divulges. She closes the distance on their body so that Robb can wrap his arms around her waist. The whole world can see and Jeyne wants them to. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as ever,” Robb says in almost childish excitement. It reminds Jeyne of how young the two of them were. “You smell wonderful.”

Jeyne blushes, “The women in the kitchens had some fresh peels left over. I know they are your favorite.” 

“It suits you,” Robb compliments. “Fresh and sweet.”

“That's one way to look at it,” she laughs while her fingers nervously clutches onto his shirt. The one she picked out.

Robb, as if remembering what Jeyne had revealed earlier, calms himself. He kisses her hand. “I will try to come back to you soon.”

Jeyne pecks his lips, an affectionate gesture not uncommon for siblings. Robb almost does not care if all the world could see them. He wants to _kiss_ her like that day, ravish her lips like a man with no honor. He tightens his hold on her to prevent anything from happening. 

“I will wait for you,” she tells him sincerely.

“Good,” he tells her. _He will not grope her_ , he tells himself. No matter how beautiful she is. “I look forward to your longing.”

Jeyne swats him away playfully. “You are a cruel man, Stark.”

“As long as you allow me, Snow,” Robb replies with a smirk. He lays one last kiss on her forehead. It is a careless mistake, for the second he removes his lips he sees a look of shock on Jeyne's face.

Jeyne remembers how _he forces her lips open and thrusts his tongue inside, tasting every part of her_ and the way _his arm grips her thigh and roams up and down._ She remembers all this and more. She remembers their desire, their wanting, their merciless passion.

Now, she knows it wasn't a dream.

Now, she has proof of what he did.

“Robb-” She starts.

Robb doesn't wait to hear her finish and pushes her away hastily. He leaves her standing there, to be left with her own thoughts and be plagued with the sickness of her memory without him. She can't confront here, in front of father and his men. All she can do is watch as he walked away.

Later, after the Stark party had departed from sight, Jeyne leaves for Robb's room. She locks the door and barricades it with as many pieces of furniture she could move on her own. She empties out all of his attires onto the bed and shakily takes off her clothes. When she is done, she wraps herself in his shirts and pants and anything that can fit her. The servants try to come in and so does her siblings.

She ignores them all.

Jeyne soaks herself in his scent and touches herself when he comes to her thoughts. She tries to imagine him, wondering if he does this to himself as much as she, and can't stop herself for the first hour or the next. The vision of her brother's hand wrapped around his cock, and then her fingers around his cock, was too much to bear. When she finally found release, her mind drifted off to a light slumber, where she dreams of him even more.

By the start of the night, Jeyne has soaked his clothes with her juices and is forced to wipe herself up with his blankets. She drinks in their combine scents. It reeks of sex. It feels like hours before she gets up and leaves for dinner. The maids who attempt to take advantage are warned not to go inside Robb's room.

“I will take care of it until he returns,” she tells them. “There's honestly not much to clean.”

“Lady Stark will not like that.”

“Lady Stark will not know,” Jeyne replies curtly. She sees the nervous maids glance at one another, and Jeyne relaxes her shoulders visibly for them to follow. “It has been mere hours and I already miss my brother. Do me the kindness of leaving his room untouched.”

Jeyne knows how to lie, but she's only found that the truth served her purpose more when spoken in her favor. The maids agree, and even walk with her to dining hall without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know that this story is evolving from slow build to 'as close to sex as one can possibly can get without having actual sex.' I really like historic fashion (thank god for pinterest so I can keep track of everything I like), the dresses Jeyne is wearing are these:  
> http://pinterest.com/pin/525162006518837046/  
> http://pinterest.com/pin/525162006518574337/
> 
> I'm just going to say it: who the hell is Ned Stark's mother? She's like the only mother from a major family that we have no clue about. Catelyn's mother? Death by childbirth. Cersei's mother? Death by childbirth. Robert's mother? Death by shipwreck. Hell, we know more about Ned's grandmother (who was apparently a Flint) than we do about his actual mother. I hear it's going into be revealed in one of those ASOIAF information books next year but COME ON! I have a theory that Ned's mother (who is confirmed to be half Flint) was some uber Northern isolationist that was super beautiful but really serious and strict. Ned's dad, Rickard, obviously had ambitions to strengthen his family using Southern matches, which probably didn't make his wife very happy. When she died, Rickard was finally able to foster his son in the Vale without her disapproval (cause I don't think she would have let him go without a fight).
> 
> Done with my rant now. Sorry for the later update. I had finals. Nuff said.


	9. Chapter 9

The men of House Umber are just as Robb remembered on his seventh nameday: large, boisterous, and generous when it comes to the drink. There is a not a moment where Robb's goblet is empty, and he gulps it down with great enthusiasm. There are rare times when the heir to Winterfell gets to partake in wine and ale, and he does not intend to waste it. In fact, it would be an insult to the heir to the Last Heath to not drink in his presence. 

He did not, however, take part in anything else.

“You drink like a babe!” Smalljon calls out, his lap filled with one of the many whores provided by his father. “Perhaps you desire your mother's teats instead of ale!” 

If it were Winterfell, Robb would be expected to ignore such remarks. But he is amongst his future bannermen, and things are expected of him. His father was with the current lords discussing 'business' and left the 'boys' alone. He raised his cup accordingly and laughed. “Have your words, Smalljon. But it is not my cock that will be failing its duty tonight. Perhaps you should do the lady a favor and hand her over to a real man,” Robb suggests with a smirk.

The room broke up into raucous cheers. Robb took another swing of his drink proudly, feeling the high from the wine and the positive reception. Smalljon, not one to back down from a challenge, spoke again.

“I'll have you know, boy,” Smalljon starts, swaggering from the drink. Robb tries not to point out that Smalljon is only a few years older than he. “That my cock is big enough to fuck a woman soft!” 

Robb scoffs mockingly, “Yes, but what is a cock if you don't where to put it?” 

It was an insult if they ever heard one, but it's form made it sound more clever than it should have. It must be the alcohol. Smalljon's eyes gleam through their haziness.

“My girth is so large it doesn't matter where I aim it!” Smalljon boasts, “I can make a woman come from the tip alone!”

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Robb challenges. 

Smalljon smirks. “Are you so anxious for my cock, boy?”

Laughter came into the halls once again, and this time it's directed towards Robb. The Stark heir bristled at the trap he just fell into. Despite the reputation of the Umbers as brash warriors, the men were born with their wits attached. Robb quickly recovers. He remembers his father's words about composure, and Jeyne's advice for dealing with such men. He raises his glass for more wine. 

“I merely thirst for the truth. You are called Smalljon, after all,” Robb comments innocently. He takes a gulp but draws his eyes to the man's crotch and chuckles. 

Smalljon slams his drink down in response. “Fucking shit!” He puts his hand on the helm of his pants, and for a second Robb thinks they're going to have pissing match right there. Then, a smirk appears on Smalljon's face and Robb is sure he doesn't like it.

“You can get your proof from your sister,” Smalljon offers, “After I have my way with her.”

Almost immediately, the crowd noises their approval at the comeback. It was obvious which sister the Umber boy is talking about. Even in his drunken state, he wouldn't dare speak of Ned Stark's trueborn girls in that matter, but Jeyne Snow is a bastard. She is not entitled to such protection. 

Robb, drunker than he's ever been, knows better than to act rashly. He even lays a hand on Theon who looks ready to punch Smalljon in his stead (though it may have also been for support in standing up).

“Remind me to consider the offer with your willing sister,” Robb speaks up. His family would be ashamed of his words, but the wine makes him less thoughtful of such details. “I hear she's been anxious to make friends. With cocks.”

The room falls silent. Smalljon's reaction is immediate, however, and the future Lord Umber huffs up enraged and his eyes blare with fury. 

“You dare attack my sister's honor?!” He shouts furiously.

“I believe that someone has already taken it," Robb quips. They both shoot a look at the heir to Dreadfort, who has the decency to look down and pretend he doesn't exist. Smalljon looks back to Robb, and without any warning, tears off his shirt. More men cheer, and if Jeyne were there, she would say it was the most ridiculous sight she's ever seen.

“I will not have some green boy attack my sister's virtue! Regardless if it's there or not!”

The sheer honesty in the statement made half of the men face palm onto the table. Knowing that there was no way out but to fight, Robb, in his drunken glory, followed suit. He stripped himself of his shirt, to reveal a toned but smooth chest. He was almost half the size of Smalljon, and probably stood no chance. 

“He's twice the man you are-literally!” Theon hisses at him. “He has hair in places you've never even heard of!”

“The gods are with me,” Robb replies cockily. As he gets up, there is a stumble. He ignore Theon's claims of “you're drunk!” Robb snorts, as Theon was already slurring.

“You are pissed, brother.” They hear one of Smalljon's siblings comment as well, trying to hold him back. Another one made mention that Robb was “Lord Stark's son,” and he shouldn't risk their father's wrath.

“Family before the Gods!” Smalljon defends proudly. “My sister would want me to fight for her!”

Theon rolls his eyes. Fucking Northerners and their sisters. 

“You heard him!” Robb agrees, and staggers towards their host's son while Smalljon followed suite. 

The two meet halfway in the hall before Smalljon lunges across to tackle Robb. The movement is slow, and Robb, sober, could have dodged it. Robb, drunk, has no chance, and is brought to the ground. Robb is at an obvious disadvantage, but he's wrestled before Jeyne and there are some techniques he's learn from her (who learn from the Mormont women) that work to his smaller size. Wrapping his legs around Smalljon's hips, he flips Smalljon over, and has his thighs choke the older man. 

“You fight like a woman!” Smalljon chokes out. 

“What woman have you fought?!” Robb asks in strain. There is some laughter heard in the room and Robb is finally aware that they have an audience. Smalljon rolls around furiously until Robb is almost thrown off. He lands on his side and he can't stop a groan from escaping his lips. 

"Aha! You have claimed weakness!" Smalljon marches over (still with a stumble) and punches Robb square in the face. Robb, still seeing stars, knuckles his throat, causing Smalljon to almost kneel over. When both are at respectable distances, they made a battle cry and move to attack each other. 

“WAIT!” 

The loud noise brought more than one headache and they both turn to the assailant. It was one of Smalljon's cousins who still held a jug filled with wine in his hands. When he stood up, the whore on his lap tumbles to the ground. 

“Why are you fighting?” He asks curiously, the wine shaking out of his hands. 

Robb and Smalljon look at each. “For...honor!” Robb replies generically. Smalljon nods in approval. “Lots of honor!”

“Whose honor?”

Neither he nor Smalljon remembers exactly. The drink is getting to his head. “I think...for a woman?”

Smalljon looks equally confused. “Perhaps a lover?”

“I have no lovers,” Robb refutes shamelessly. He takes a drink on the side belonging to another man and chugs. “Did you insult my sister?”

“No, my lord,” Smalljon denies. “Perhaps, my sister? I have sisters.”

“No, I think it was my sisters. They have lots of honor.” Robb shakes his head, feeling the room spin. He and Smalljon took another drink to lessen the headache. “How is your sister?” 

“She's my sister. But it can't be her, she barely has any honor left,” Smalljon retorts with a loud laugh. Robb starts laughing with him, and the two fell to the ground laughing. 

Theon watches from the side, barely conscious and still having enough sense to sigh. Northerners are idiots, he thinks to himself. 

Robb immediately springs up. “But there must be someone's honor to defend!” 

Smalljon agrees frantically. “Yes!” 

“How about your sister?”

“Yes, I hear someone has taken her honor!”

“Was it a wildling?” Robb asks with wide eyes and dramatic flair. He knows about the constant raids that happen on Umber lands. Such unfortunate dwellings they have, and they were such good men, too. 

“No!” Smalljon protests. “I think it was...Lord Domeric!”

Every single pair of eyes fell towards the Bolton heir, who looks like deer caught in the headlights. He makes a motion to defend himself. “Lord Smalljon, I thought we already discuss this...”

“Silence, you coward!”

“You shall not persuade us with your lies!”

Domeric Bolton almost feels like crying. He gets up with little stagger, having kept his drinking to a minimum in case of a fight. He opens his mouth to speak, and then breaks out to a sprint across the room. Smalljon and Robb barely manage to keep up, having been tripping and stumbling over the tables and each other. Half of the men cheered for Domeric's capture while the other half took more swings of wine. They were not drunk enough for this shit. 

When Roose Bolton, Eddard Stark, and Greatjon Umber came into the halls to check on their sons, they were not surprise to see the entire hall breaking out into a full fledged war. Smalljon and Robb's chase had drew forth the fighting spirits of the green boys and risen their warrior pride. They attacked each other with forks and knives, jugs of wine and plates. Some of the whores had already returned home while the others sat and watch. 

“Stop running, weakling!” The future Lord Umber cries. 

“We need to recover his sister's honor!” Robb follows as he trips over another man, who was currently having a spat with one of their guards. 

“I have done nothing! It was my honor that was taken!” Domeric defends as he throws an empty cup at the two of them. Roose almost slapped his beloved son for his pathetic announcement. 

“Please tell me we weren't that stupid as children,” Lord Bolton all but begs. His voice remains soft spoken as always, but there is an obvious strain as he watches his son get chased around the room. 

“I think we were worst,” Lord Stark chuckles. Robb's attention was captured by another when some stray guard pulls his leg down for a wrestle and asks him to “put those girly thighs to work!” Robb demands the drunkard to "unhand him" in which the other refused. 

“At least they're not stripping naked and traveling to Oldtown in the middle of the night,” Greatjon offers proudly. “We've got them beat yet.”

Lord Bolton raises an eyebrow. “Which reminds me, why didn't you stop them, Lord Stark?”

Ned shrugs, “I wanted to see how far they would go.” 

“How far did they go?” 

“Castle Black,” Greatjon reveals proudly. “Met my wife on the way there as well. Had to dual for her hand.” 

“That's in the opposite direction.” 

“I know,” Ned remembers dryly, “That's why I wanted daughters.” 

In Winterfell, Arya Stark attacks her eldest sister with great force and little grace. She swung her wooden sword like a madmen, a testament to her perchance for impulse, while Jeyne made calm sidesteps to avoid her. Having enough of her sister's careless moves, Jeyne quickly strikes Arya's wrist with enough force to disarm her, and captures her by the throat. She drags Arya to the ground, and places the sword against her throat. 

Arya struggles to get out of her grip, but Jeyne remains firm. She waits for Arya to become tired, and while it takes longer time than expected, the noble girl eventually submits. Letting her out, she throws her sister back her wooden sword.

“You leave too many openings and swing like a half-drunk fool,” Jeyne criticizes. 

“It's my third day!” Arya protests. 

“And yet you still can't find a way to hold your sword properly,” Jeyne quips coldly. She sees Arya falter, but tells herself that now is not the time to spoil her. If she does not get better, Lord Stark will find a reason to stop the lessons. 

Jeyne sighs and gently strokes her sister's cheek. “As a woman, it will be hard for you to gain respect with the sword. You cannot just be good, Arya,” she advises. “You have to get better, or learn the humility that comes with the protection of guards.”

Arya groans, but straightens up and launches another attack. Jeyne dodges it easily, and watches as Arya lose control and lets it sink to the ground.

Ser Rodrik makes a suggestion. “I'll have you start on a lighter sword. Perhaps, that one is too heavy.” 

"It is fine," Jeyne protests, but she can see that he isn't listening. The knight stands on the sidelines during most of their lessons, having little experience outside of Jeyne when instructing girls. Even then, he taught her as a boy alongside her brother. 

Arya reluctantly lets him change the equipment. They continue again for another thirty minutes or so, with Arya almost jumping for joy when she manages a hit. It was done on accident, but a victory was a victory no matter how small. 

Nearing the end, Septa Mordane came to take Arya away. 

“I don't want to go!” Arya whines. Septa Mordane almost rolls her eyes and preps herself a long, tiresome argument.

“If you don't come your mother will be very upset, Lady Arya.”

“I don't care! This is much more fun than any boring lesson on how to be a lady!” 

Septa Mordane sighs, “Those lessons are necessary, Lady Arya.” Especially for you, was not spoken out loud. Jeyne laughs from the sidelines, wondering when it was time for her to speak.

“I don't want to,” Arya argues further, this time with more vigor. “It's all so stupid, playing with needles and thread and listen to you talk about how to be a stupid lady-”

“Arya!" Jeyne threatens from afar.

Arya stops speaking. Jeyne looks at her with a dark expression that is countered by her sweet smile. “It's very rude to refuse a septa's instruction,” Jeyne points out. “Especially for a young girl whose been given so many privileges. One might see this and find them undeserving.” 

She takes Arya's sword to prove a point. Under Jeyne's influence (and threat), Arya relents. Septa Mordane sends her a look of gratitude, and shovels Arya away towards the baths. Jeyne thanks Ser Rodrik for the lesson, and puts away her own equipment. 

Before Jeyne leaves for the hot springs (a luxury she rarely indulges), Jeyne checks the ravens for any letters addressed to her. She has several for her own use, all rejects of some kind. There is one beast in particular whose scar (probably an accident from malicious children) has caused one wing to almost completely bald. It flies as well as any other raven, but its appearance has made it unfavorable with some of the other inhabitants of Winterfell. Maester Luwin gifted it to her as a child, after she begged him not to get rid of it. Since then, she has used it for most of her correspondences. The bird is clever, and knows several passages whereas others only know one or two.

She sees that she has messages, and gleefully takes them into the hot springs with her. Once there, Jeyne releases herself from the heavy robes until there is no protection left to hide from those wandering eyes. She dips herself into the steaming liquid, and almost hisses from the heat. 

It takes a moment for her to adjust, before her body gives itself to the soothing waters. It has been too long since she's had any time here, and she makes a note to come more often. Perhaps even bring Robb alongside her. She resists the urge to pleasure herself again, knowing how such an addiction would look upon her character. Instead, she focuses her thoughts instead on her letters, and the news they would provide her. 

It's not as if Jeyne does not trust her brother, but she is cautious for his virtue. Outside these walls are bountiful amounts of deviancy, and none of her to guide him. There is little point to having friends outside Winterfell if there was no profit involved. 

Her letters from the Umber girls reveal very little, only that Robb is spending time with the bannermen's sons and squires, behaving like a typical male. There is mild discussion of the influx of whores arriving, but as far as they knew, Robb remains celibate. They say that he is such an honorable man. That he is as sweet as lemon cakes. Jeyne can see the desire in their words. It makes her burn with disgust. How dare they talk about her brother like that? How dare they think themselves as worthy of Robb Stark, their future liege lord and soon to be the most powerful man in the North?

Nonetheless, the information is welcome to worries she has yet to acknowledge. Robb has remain faithful to his future wife. He has remained faithful to her as well. 

Jeyne touches her lips and tries to recall his fading touch. It is a weak memory, but one that will be remedied. She knows that upon his return, Robb will refresh such sensations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I've only written one line for the next chapter (and its subject to change):  
> "There is something about Jeyne Snow that scares Lady Sansa."
> 
> Anyways, I'm planning to write a totally unrelated 5+1 story about fem!Jon. It's going to be titled something like "Five Times Someone Went Behind Catelyn's Back to Court Fem!Jon and One Time They Did It In Front of Her Face." Which will include Blackfish and Edmure most def. Or "Five Times Someone Went Behind Ned's Back to Court Fem!Jon and One Time They Did It In Front of His Face." But I haven't got the other pairings. So who do you want to see fem!Jon with (Besides Robb)?


	10. Chapter 10

There is something about Jeyne Snow that scares Sansa Stark.

It's not that she is bastard, for that is the cause of pity, not fear. Sansa is not even sure she feels that towards her half sister. Septa Mordane tells her that Jeyne is unfortunate; a lady in every way but birth. Jeyne will never accomplish the same things Sansa will, and that, the Septa tells her, is so very sad. While Sansa tries to believe her, _wants_ to believe her, she can't. Not when Jeyne walks gracefully around Winterfell with her head held up high, and captures the beloved gazes of the people. There are some that treat her with disdain, mostly the maids that came with her mother from the South, and the more devout followers who cringed at the bastardy (though no one is more devout that Beth Cassel and she adores Jeyne), but otherwise, Jeyne is well loved. Sansa is the trueborn daughter of Lord and Lady Stark, yet they do not look at her like they look at Jeyne.

 _She is of the North_ , Sansa hears them whisper. _She is Lyanna reborn._ _She is her father's child._ They never say that about her.

Perhaps, Sansa could be more forgiving, treat her half sister with more kindness if such behavior was limited to the servants. Instead, she has to endure it with her siblings as well. Robb, Arya, Bran, and perhaps even Rickon in the future, loves her more.

Robb, she could excuse. Sansa is not naïve enough to believe that she could remove Jeyne's place in his heart, nor is she foolish enough to think that she could bond with her older brother. No one knows how old Jeyne is, whether she is younger or older than Robb is up to debate. There are times when Sansa thinks they are twins, one soul housed by two bodies.

The others, however, could not be condoned.

Arya was supposed to be _her_ younger sibling, a Jeyne to her Robb. She was supposed to look up to her and they would share sweets and play games like the knight and the princess and behave like _ladies_. Arya was none of that. Arya was loud as a child and even louder as a young girl. She fought constantly and played in the mud and wanted to get dirty all the time. Sansa remembers begging her mother to take Arya back and give her a better sister, a proper sister, only to have her mother laugh in her face.

The only time Arya was at peace was when held by Jeyne, who adored her and encouraged her martial pursuits. The more time Arya spent away from Sansa, the more she bonded with Jeyne over epic tales of Aegon the Conqueror and the Warrior Queen Nymeria. Sansa hated that, hated how Jeyne could so easily win over the one person who was supposed to be _hers_.

Bran was her next betrayal, and she fought harder for him than she did Arya. At first, it seemed as if they would both lose to Robb, whose masculinity appealed to their younger brother than either of the girls' charms. Sansa could handle that. In fact, she would encourage it. She can lose to a woman, but she cannot compete with a man.

Sansa was content; it wasn't until she goes to check on her younger brother does she realized her mistake. Jeyne was there with him, playing with Jeyne's ravens (horrific creatures with burnt wings and rotten beaks; ravens no one would take). She called him her 'little knight,' a term of endearment Sansa vowed never to speak of.

By the time Rickon was born, Sansa was sick of it. She was sick of losing her siblings to her father's _bastard_. She was sick of being rejected, over and over again. She was sick of always being alone. Sansa did everything right, but no one ever cares about her. Not her brothers, or father, or sisters. She only has her mother and Septa Mordane, and there are times when Sansa wonders if Jeyne will take them away from her, too. Lady Stark is the only one who stands in the way of Jeyne's legitimacy and with her gone, there is no reason Jeyne would not carry the Stark name. Jeyne knows this, and Sansa can't help but wonder if Jeyne will act on it.

Sansa should burn for such vicious thoughts.

Her guilt leads her to the sept, where she throws herself down on her knees and begs for forgiveness from the Gods. She prays to the Mother, for compassion, to rid herself of these wicked emotions. She prays to the Maiden, to give her the grace and refinement of a lady, one who does look at natural children as threats. She even prays to the Crone for the wisdom not to act on her horrid imagination.

After an hour of worship, Sansa is disheartened to discover that only a portion of her grief has been alleviated. She makes way to her rooms hastily, desperate to avoid any contact. She does not want to speak to her Septa with darkness in her heart or her mother, who would only encourage such contempt. Least of all, she does not wish to run into siblings.

When Sansa opens the door to her room, the sight makes her nearly scream. Is she so sinful that the Gods wish to punish her with the bane of her troubles? Or is this the Smith's way of mending a broken bond? Sansa should have prayed to the Father, for his judgment would be the greatest blessing now.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa questions anxiously.

Jeyne raises an eyebrow, and she almost seems put off before remembering her place. Bastards should be grateful the trueborn children even acknowledge them, after all. She instead smiles at Sansa.

“I was waiting for you. I trust your mid noon prayer was as satisfying as ever?”

It was horrible, Sansa denies in her head. Especially now that you're here. “It was lovely, thank you. Is that all?” She asks, even though she knows the answer is no.

Jeyne shakes her head. She takes a few steps forward, and Sansa can see that she is rather dressed up. Her dress was new, or at least, redone to look new. It was light gray with sleeves and a top bodice embellished with depictions of vines. It wasn't as fine or as well made as Sansa's own wardrobe; Sansa has always been more skilled in these arts than Jeyne; but it was still quite lovely.

“Lord Stark's party will be returning in a few days. I wanted your opinion on whether I should wear this dress for their return,” Jeyne explains simply, cheerily almost. It's as if they were children again and the best of friends.

Sansa supposes she could demand that Jeyne leave then and there, or worse. She heard from Jeyne Poole that in the South, young ladies would have their father's bastards whipped for far less than entering their rooms without permission.

“It's not very appropriate,” Sansa replies evenly. Unable to kick her out, Sansa opted to be, at the very least, civil towards her half sister. She is a lady and this is a test for her to behave like one. Sansa glances at the dress. While most of the material covers her entire body, the top portion was visibly...unattended to. “Your breasts are...” _pouring out, on full display, ready for theater,_ “...going to be very cold.”

Jeyne laughs. “Trust me, Sansa, our brother will see to their warmth.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Robb will indulge you, as he always does. Then, he'll get angry at all the other men for looking at you.” It's rather incredulous how lenient Robb is with Jeyne. Sansa knows that everyone agrees with her on this matter; everyone is always talking about how wrong their love is. It's almost scandalous how Robb seems to favor Jeyne over his own trueborn sisters. They should be the first to receive such affection.

Furthermore, Sansa thinks frustratingly, Jeyne always stops behaving like a lady when Robb is around. Robb should be setting a good example instead of spoiling her. The Gods knows he's harsh enough with Sansa. “If you did not want my advice, why did you seek it?”

Jeyne does not answer right away. Instead, she focuses on the mirror in Sansa's room, checking on her appearance as if it were the most interesting in the room. “Perhaps I wanted an excuse to see you,” Jeyne suggests softly. 

The confession startles Sansa. In turn, the younger girl cannot find a response outside of stutters and confusion. Jeyne kindly decides to change the topic. “Irregardless, I possess no dress finer than the one you see before you. I fear I must wear it, or else risk facing Robb's disappointment.”

“Why?” Sansa wonders out loud.

"It is a very important time for Robb. Great things are beginning to happen for him."

"How do you know?" How does Jeyne seem to know everything that goes on in the North."

Jeyne smirks, as if Sansa had revisited an old joke. “Why did Lord Stark leave for the Last Hearth?”

“To settle matters with Lord Umber and Lord Bolton,” Sansa answers, almost petulantly. Father had explained it to them quite clearly. Why was Jeyne teasing her?

“Tell me, what do you know about Lord Jon Umber?”

Another obvious question. Sansa answers perfectly, having been taught this. “House Umber are the Lords of the Last Hearth. It is a noble house of the North, sworn to House Stark of Winterfell. The head of the house is Lord Jon Umber Their sigil is a roaring giant, brown-haired and wearing a skin, with broken silver chains, on flame-red background.”

Jeyne is silent, and Sansa smiles proudly. Her response was so correct that it stun Jeyne speechless-

“Wrong.”

Sansa is taken back. At first confusion surprises her, until anger and annoyance overrides it. Her answer was _perfect_. How dare Jeyne imply-?

“I asked you about Lord Umber, not about his house,” Jeyne corrects. Before Sansa could ask the difference Jeyne speaks up again. “Lord Umber is a longtime friend of Lord Stark, who he's known since they were boys. After his father died, he was made Lord of the Last Hearth when he was but a boy of twelve and was raised by his uncles thereafter. Unlike most noblemen, he married a widow much older than he who then proceeded to bear him numerous children, including his eldest son and heir, also named Jon. He is called Greatjon to differentiate the two. He has no bastards. He's fought beside your father and he fights wildlings daily. Now what does this say about him?”

Jeyne does not wait for a reply. Sansa is grateful for she had none to give.

“It says that he is loyal, and he is. I can't think of a house more trustworthy to the Starks than that of House Umber. It also says that he is fearless, and we can count on him and his men in times of war. Now how do we reward such fidelity?”

Sansa is given time to think. “We pay them homage...”

Jeyne makes a sharp motion, implying her discontent with the answer. “Call it as it is, Lady Sansa. It's a bribe, and no. Such an act would only infuriate the Umbers, and lower the morale of the other Northern families. Only a fool pays for loyalty, and you should know that better than anyone. Remember your grandfather?”

Sansa did. While a part of her is insulted by the remark, a more rational side of her begins to see the reason. She heard that her grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, had several of his families rebel against him during Robert's Rebellion. He was known for dealing out lowered taxes in favor of the more 'faithful' nobles.

Despite her feelings, Sansa found the courage to ask, “Then what do we do?”

Jeyne seems pleased that she's listening. “We give them grandchildren.”

Sansa stays quiet. “There is nothing a lord desires more than to see his daughter wedded to their liege lord and his grandchild as one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Or, at the very least, to be bestowed the honor of joining such a great family.”

Jeyne gives time for the words to wash over Sansa before speaking again. “Despite this, the Umbers do not give their support freely. They like to test the Lords of Winterfell, current and future. That's why it is paramount that Smalljon and Robb become friends. That's why Robb cannot be a stranger.”

Sansa nods in understanding.

“Now, let me ask you a question. One that proves you understand,” Jeyne declares ominously. “Why did Lord Stark bring Robb along with him to the Last Hearth?”

Before listening to Jeyne, Sansa would have repeated what father told them at dinner. That Robb needed to learn mediation tactics in order to become the Lord of Winterfell. That he needed to spend time with his bannerman in order to build loyalty.

“Father wanted to formerly introduce Robb as the future Lord of Winterfell as well as remind the Umbers and the Boltons of their positions of his bannermen. Bringing Robb along allowed them to see him not as a figurehead but as his own person. In order to do so, they need to be familiar with him and call him one of their own on their own accord, without force,” Sansa answers. Jeyne seems please with the answer so Sansa continues, hoping to prove her knowledge was greater than what her lesson Jeyne had given. “Furthermore, Lord Bolton is not known for any particular loyalties to the Stark House. Robb will be able to appeal to a family whose allegiance is firm and a family whose allegiance is weak.”

Jeyne laughs genuinely in front of her and she grasp Sansa's hands with great affection. “Sweet lady, you are wise as you are beautiful,” Jeyne praises before kissing them. “One day, you will rule as the Good Queen Alysanne did.”

Sansa beams at the assessment.

“Now, I fear I have overstayed my welcome,” Jeyne determines all of a sudden. She prepares to undress. Sansa startles at the announcement. The red haired beauty completely disregards any previous thoughts she had about her sister's presence.

“Are you leaving so soon?”

Jeyne chuckles, “Yes, I do not wish to be a greater burden than I already am. Thank you for indulging me, my dear lady.”

Jeyne is down to her underground before Sansa could protest. The Stark girl is furthered muffled by the sight of Jeyne's bare flesh. Having avoided her for a great deal of her young life, Sansa had forgotten Jeyne's body.

Once again, Sansa is reminded of the difference between a pretty girl and a beautiful woman. Sansa knows which one she is, has heard the praises from all around Winterfell. Yet, she also knows that the one men want is the woman. The one with the milky skin covering large, swelling breast for them to suck and round hips to grab when making love. Jeyne's legs, which stretches to skies, could easily wrap a willing male and hold her up as she begins to rut with her partner. She begins to imagine her older sister beneath some man, losing herself to pure pleasure. She is sure Jeyne would be an amazing lover, vocal and attentive to one's every need. Everything from her lovely lips to her long fingers would be used to make her lover happy.

Sansa's breath becomes shallow and she doesn't even realize she's staring until Jeyne has caught her.

There is desire in Sansa's eyes that intrigues Jeyne to no end. Jeyne would feel violated, if it weren't for the knowledge that Sansa is innocent in her affections; she probably doesn't even understand lust, especially for another woman. Jeyne should take it as a sign to leave, or at least dress herself properly. Yet...those eyes of hers are so much like Robb's...

“Those eyes of yours are absolutely _mouthwatering_ ,” Jeyne compliments brazenly. Still clad in a meek under dress, one befitting a courtesan or more distastefully, a whore, she brushes over Sansa's cheeks. “If I were a thief, I would steal those sapphires for myself.”

Sansa blushes, “You are too kind.”

“And the way your cheeks light up is so lovely. I adore that color. Those Tully cheekbones are simply treasures,” Jeyne purrs. Another Tully feature Robb is fortunate to inherit. She makes a move to play with Sansa's hair. Robb's hair had some delightful ginger undertones as well.

The admission causes another uncomfortable reaction. Realizing what would happen if Jeyne speaks again, she asks Jeyne to leave.

“I thought you were heading out,” Sansa breathes out.

Jeyne resists the urge to smirk. Instead, she appears sad, disheartened.

“Apologies, I had not wish to make you uncomfortable,” Jeyne retracts. “It was unforgivable to think that you would want to...I am truly sorry.”

The shortened confession is enough to catch Sansa's curiosity. “What did you think I wanted?”

Jeyne pretends to be hesitant, pretends to be doubtful of something that Sansa wants to know.

“Tell me,” Sansa orders, drawing out her inner wolf. It was adorable, Jeyne muses.

Jeyne finishes the final touches on her dress. Plain and slovenly, the image of an unfortunate bastard. She looks at Sansa with sorrow in her eyes, building up from years of repression.

“You loved me once,” Jeyne whispers. She draws herself closer to Sansa once again, and her presence makes Sansa shiver. “You would follow me around like I was the only person in the world, and I adored every second. Do you remember when we picked out flowers in the woods?”

Sansa did. She remembered Jeyne taking Arya and her to the woods after a particularly horrible argument between the two Stark girls. She picked flowers with Sansa so that they could do her hair and played games with Arya and Sansa until they fainted from fatigue.

“I wish it did not end,” Jeyne admits softly. "I wish we could be close once more." 

“I do, too,” Sansa replies. The statement slips out before she could control it. “I mean...”

Jeyne embraces her. As if realizing her mistake, she takes a step back to bow to Lord Stark's daughter. “That was..."

Sansa cuts her off before hugging her. “I missed you as well.”

“Let us become friends, slowly but surely we could rebuild the bonds. Maybe even be the sisters I've always dream of.” Jeyne smiles when Sansa nods in agreement. “Now kiss me.”

The demand is kind, a sealing of their promise to rebuild their bond. Yet, it is a demand nonetheless. A bastard girl should never the demand a lady of anything, and it is a great mercy that Sansa does not notice, even after their lips part.

Her father will be so happy to learn that they made amends. Of course, he will praise Sansa for her generosity and kindness, which in turn will strengthen their bond. Yet, their father will know she was responsible. He will assume she was lonely and wanted to enjoy Sansa's company. He will assume that Robb's absence has led her to rethink her relationships with her family. That she can no longer depend solely on Robb for her happiness.

Ned Stark, as a good man, will never suspect that Jeyne did it to see the horrified look on Lady Stark's face when she's sees Sansa and Jeyne walking together in the halls after a lesson with Septa Mordane. How she must feel when she realizes she lost all of her children to a whore's daughter.

Jeyne has to laugh when she thinks about it. If Lady Stark had given her a name, this would not be an issue. Recognition is not law, and as long as Lord Stark remained her father by blood and not by title, she and Robb could never be considered siblings. Truly, she only needed Robb to be satisfied. She would have played idol to Arya and read stories to Rickon and Bran, do Sansa's hair like a good bitch, but she did not need their devotion. Only Robb's. With Robb officially taking a stance in Northern politics, it was her time to bring forth Robb's true potential. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I promised that I would do these chapters every week or so. I lied. Life gets in the way of these things. Sorry. Sorry lots. With that being said, Runs in the Family will be updated soon. I am going to take a minor hiatus (two-three weeks from writing/not updating) so that I can focus on that story. This is not a discontinued announcement. I planned too far in advance for this story NOT to be continued. Robb and Jeyne still need to have lots of sex before I can let that happen.
> 
> Thank you for reading, btw.


	11. Chapter 11

Two women lie in the godswoods, eyes half-lidded and bodies damp from the breaking dawn’s fresh dew. One whose hair is as dark as night and skin as white as snow, beautiful by all means, unconventional or otherwise, and the other, older, less appealing but still pretty, hair the color of night autumn. With the skies clouded by darkness, they remain cloaked by the hamadryads’ shadows. They are resting without doing so, praying without prayer. Their very presence seemed to serve as worship. After a few moments of rests, the younger one speaks.

“Love, that on gentle heart quickly lays hold, seized him for the fair person that was taken from me, and the mode still hurts me. Love, which absolves no loved one from loving, seized me for the pleasing of him so strongly that, as thou sees, it does not even now abandon me. Love brought us to one death.”

The older woman, weary from fatigue and exasperation responds. “What madness has overcome you?”

“Words of a dead man.” The dark hair one’s lips twitched, “You’d like it.” 

Her partner scoffs. “One of those idolatrous books you’ve been reading again? Have you no shame? On sacred grounds no less?"

"Again, it is a rather marvelous book. You could learn much from it." 

"I’d rather gorge my eyes out.”

The other girl laughs loudly. She turns on one side to face her friend, further wrinkling her fine dress. She reaches out to play with the other girl’s hair, curling a lock around her fingers. The older one is compelled to turn. Her lips twists into something sinister as she speaks. “Why have you summon me, Jeyne?”

“A lady summons. A bastard serves,” The bastard’s eyes twinkle. “We are friends, Beth.”

“We are women,” Beth corrects. “And the hour of friendship has passed. When we dance in the eve of twilight, we are conspirators.”

Jeyne let’s go of Beth’s hair and gently runs her finger across her companion’s lips. Before long, they reach each others mouths and press. A kiss of friendship, of trust, of crime. When they part, Jeyne sighs wistfully, amused by Beth’s solid gaze. “Your eyes are keen to detect deceit.” 

“It is not deceit I detect,” Beth’s states, gratified by the confession. “But desire. You have been restless since the departure of the Lord. You’ve been collecting ravens, building bonds amongst your blood; the Lady Stark is suspicious but you’ve been discreet enough that she dares not make accusation in fear of sounding like a hysteric.” 

“What if that was my desire?” Jeyne challenges. “To drive my father’s wife on the brink of lunacy? The murder of a mind is still a murder but no crime.” 

“Such a poet.” Beth’s lips morph into a sardonic smile. “There are far easier ways to drive a woman mad. A few drops of nightshade, a misplaced petal of wolfsbane in her tea…”

“A rare illness, an unfortunate plague…” Jeyne grimaces at her friend’s modesty. “Do not liken your talents to something as cheap as poison. You can destroy fortresses with what you have in that room of yours.” 

“A room in which all their contents are entirely at your disposal and for your use. Do not think your generosity has been forgotten, Jeyne.”

“I have not,” Jeyne admits, “And I am grateful for our friendship.” 

A breeze befalls the trees, causing a light shower of light to befall them. The stars have taken rest, breaking way for a new day, full of new reunions and old eyes. 

Beth hushes her, “The sun has begun its journey. If you seek my aid, you must make your pleas now. For the return of Lady Stark’s son will bring forth the fervor of her spies.”

“I am aware,” Jeyne retorts.

“Then explain to me why caution has become a bothersome pest from than a trusted ally. I have heard the rumors from the maids whose swollen ankles and hard hands come to me. I know of the bets made by the soldiers on your supposed lovemaking. You are hardly subtle in your desires, Jeyne.”

Jeyne brushes such concerns away, “Such nonsense risen from boredom. Everyone knows that what is assumed between my brother and I are lies.”

Beth does not agree. “Yes, but Winterfell has become a breeding ground for those lies. I hear them, Jeyne, as do you and Lady Stark. The whispers of sins, and rumors, and tasteless innuendos. Tell me, how long can manipulate their supple minds with your devious ploys and well placed suggestions?”

“As long as they remain true,” Jeyne firmly states. “And they will always be true.” 

“Careful of the ground you are treading on, Jeyne. A good lie is like a fine cure. It will fight the disease off the first time, but if the ailment returns, the appeal weakens until the effect is no more.” 

Jeyne contemplates remaining cautious, but knows that she has already revealed too much in the name of desire. Beth is a woman of great secrets, and has kept a great many of hers already. 

“Will you support my ambitions?”

“As you would with mine,” Beth answers smoothly. The rays begin to peer through the leaves of the godswoods’ inhabitants, forming spots of white onto their dresses. “We are friends, Jeyne.” 

Jeyne chuckles at the mockery. “What if I wanted Winterfell?” She asks, testing the waters that have soaked her and her brother for so long. “What if I wanted Robb?” She knows of Beth’s distaste for Robb, raise from his contentment in praying to two sets of Gods. Beth abhors the practices of the South, and watching them thrive in the North serves to further insult her.

Nonetheless, Beth’s stance remains true. She casually places a hand underneath Jeyne’s gown, running it up her thigh. “The Starks are the heart of Winterfell and you already have his heart,” Her palm travels further up, landing on Jeyne’s private areas. “All you have to do is set forth an invitation.” 

Jeyne pushes Beth away playfully. They giggle like children, as if they were playing a game of cards instead of plotting treason. Jeyne rises to her feet, reassured by her friend’s blessing. She straightens out her dress, not bothering with the spots of grass and dirt. Beth assumes that Jeyne does not want to look too fine; such an appearance would incur Lady Stark’s suspicions. Beth lingers on the ground, not bothering with the same preening. She will stay here for the welcoming, before returning to her workspace. 

“Will you seduce him?” Beth asks, more of an attempt for conversation than actual curiosity. “If so, be wise not to act in haste, and let him come to you. If you are caught, it is not he who the burden will be befall.” 

“I love him,” Jeyne admits with a heavy heart. “Is it possible to seduce a man you love for gain?”

“It is for the best,” Beth claims calmly, “You have a fierce soul, Jeyne, but not a cruel one. You will do what you must to accomplish what you need but when time comes for wickedness you will suffer. I rather you act in the name of love than repulsion.”

“What is love without trust?”

“A folly no greater than love without lust.”

Before Jeyne could answer, the sounds of horses came from the outside while cries of joy ran throughout Winterfell. She could hear the gates opening and the men shouting, announcing the arrival of Jeyne’s deepest desire.

The guards spot his father’s party hours before their arrival. The Gods were kind, and blessed their journey with good tidings and fine weather. They came to Winterfell almost half a day early, reaching the walls just when the day was about to break. Their welcome is simple, family and friends of the guards, no banners or needless expenses. 

Robb Stark could not arrive soon enough. He longs to see his home once again, longs to find comfort within the confines of stone walls and take in the sights of familiar vendors. He desires nothing more than to be amongst his whole family, swept in the safe bosom of loved ones. He feels like a child, suffering from an illness as frail as missing one’s home but he cannot help it. 

When they reach the walls, the gates rise with impeccable timing. His Lord father rides in front, giving the guards a hawk’s eye view of their identity. They are supposed to check all visitors, no matter how familiar, but today is a special occasion, and this is quicker way to achieve entry.

His siblings rush out to greet him, Arya almost tackling him to the ground the second he steps off his horse. Bran and Sansa, though not as aggressive in their affections, are not less delighted and hug him upon chance. Due to the day’s immaturity, Rickon, body half asleep and eyes barely open, remains by their mother’s side. The Tully born lady embraces her husband with great yearning. They kiss tenderly, basking in the joy of Ned’s homecoming. 

The sight serves as a somber element to Robb’s fair mood. He releases himself from his family’s presence, searching for what his heart truly yearn for during his time away. In the days departed, all he has wanted to do was return home. Yet, Robb’s home is only where his heart is, and his heart belonged to another. 

“Robb?”

Jeyne sees Robb first.

She stands there, still as hesitance. Her eyes cloud over with wonder, as if she is not sure whether or not the man standing before her is a dream brought to her from pining. She is as lovely as he remembered, perhaps even more so, for absence makes the heart grow fonder and with every new day he has loved her more than one before. 

He takes one step.

Jeyne dashes into the solace of his arms, wraps herself in the heat of the familiar embrace. Her eyes are on the edge of tears, for she has never wanted anything so badly and have her prayers received. She had planned their reunion to be a heartfelt but confined affair, one befitting the presence of their Lord Father and Lady. Despite it all, Jeyne cannot deny want the heart wants, and Jeyne’s heart desires nothing more than to join Robb’s. He kisses her on the temple at first, before moving onto her left cheek and then her right, her collarbone, and finally rests on her lips without mercy. They continue such a cycle without a care for the eyes upon them. 

Far from them, Jory watches with apprehension for the two children he has grown to care for while working under the service of their Lord Father. He sees Lady Stark tighten her grip onto Lord Stark’s arm, while their leader stares menacingly at the display. The one who frightens him the most, however, is the Stark ward, with his jealous gaze and scorned heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To start off, thank you all for supporting me in this story. I'm really happy to writing it once more and I'm grateful for all those who commented because comments (after a long time) make me feel guilty for not updating and the more guilty I feel, the more I am complied to update. So thank you again!
> 
> In case most of you don’t know, Jeyne is quoting a passage from Dante’s inferno. When Dante enters the first circle of hell, he sees two forbidden lovers being punished (Paolo and Francesca) for lust and unlike the other ‘criminals’ in hell, he feels pity for them. I wrote in this Beth/Jeyne scene because while I constantly state that the two are friends, I’ve never written them together. Oh, and this is the dress Jeyne is wearing. Instead of white, there is gray, and instead of a gold intricate pattern, there are less vines and more of a dark silver tone. http://www.pinterest.com/pin/525162006518574361/


	12. Chapter 12

“Robb.”

Still lost in his sister’s warmth, the heir does not avert his gaze at his father’s voice. He kisses the side of her head once more, inhaling the familiar scent of chill and citruses. Jeyne, for all her longing, obtains her sense faster than her noble brother. She presses her palm against his cheek and nods.

“Yes, father?” He responds, slowly slipping out of her embrace. He walks towards his father, a hand placed on Jeyne’s lower back as he leads them together.

“You must record the happenings of the Last Hearth,” the Lord of Winterfell orders. He turns to Lady Stark, though the message is addressed to all of them. “Maester Luwin will be instructing Robb on the aftermath of these events. It will take all day so he will not be joining us for meals.”

Robb grimaces. He was informed of these lesson within a few miles of Winterfell, dreading every moment of its upcoming arrival. “Perhaps a moment with my siblings before I start? I want to see the look on their faces when they see what I’ve brought them.”

The children’s faces light up at the mention of presents. “ _Please father_!” Bran begs adorably. Lady Stark covers her mouth in an attempt to cover socially inappropriate laughter. The others begin to chime in, with Rickon on the verge of wailing.

Lord Stark, the reluctant villain, stares down guiltily. A man of few words, he soon found that in the mist of four tearful children, the ones he had escaped him. Just when Robb believes he will levy the situation, the boy is unpleasantly surprised. “These are the duties of the Lord of Winterfell. Robb must take them as seriously as any other. Maester Luwin is already in the library, anticipating the report. Would you all have the man wait until you are finished?”

The children avert their eyes shamefully. They stare longingly at the wagon, a single trunk filled with gifts and treats. In the past, Lady Spark would offer a compromise to all parties involved. Today, Jeyne smiles just as sweetly and twice as sinful. “If Robb finishes his duties early, we might be able to have a celebration of our own.”

The children look at her with interest.

“I can ask the cooks to make a few extra treats, and have the maids clear out one of the guest rooms so that we may rest overnight. That way, we can trade stories of our time apart and thank him at the same time.”

The four chortle in agreement. Even Sansa seems charmed by the idea of a little party. “I am amendable to that plan,” Robb approves.

Jeyne looks up at Lady Stark innocently. She ignores the glower growing on the Tully face. “If it is alright with Lord Stark, of course?”

They consider it, with Lord Stark concluding the plan to be a fair resolution. The earlier display between Jeyne and Robb troubled him, but as long as the other children are present, the two would be reminded of their relationship. When Lady Stark could not find an objection, Lord Stark gave his permission. “It is alright as long as they are well-rested for the next day. I will not have them slacking off on their lessons from fatigue.”

“Yes, Lord Stark,” Jeyne obeys. She even bows to strengthen her promise. The Snow child turns to Robb with a proud smile. Robb returns it, always elated when his beloved sister got her way. When he inherited his father’s lands, Robb would not hesitate to give her the world.

“You must uphold your end of the bargain,” Jeyne teases, her thumb affectionately swatting against her brother’s chin. “Or we will be very disappointed.”

“I will get to it,” Robb promises. He grabs and traces Jeyne’s knuckles possessively with his lips.

“You must bathe before coming,” Jeyne advises. “You’ve had such a long journey.”

“I will,” Robb submits, pressing wet kisses on her fist. “After the lessons.”

“You must go to the lessons first,” Jeyne warns playfully. She bats her hand away. “Maester Luwin is waiting.”

“Hmm…”

“Your family is watching.”

To Robb’s credit, he recovers. He faces his mother and father with a sheepish smile, as if he had committed a social faux paus rather than caress his half-sister. Lady Catelyn looks livid, while their father is unreadable. The children, however, are amused. Arya rolls her eyes.

As far as they were concern, this behavior is as natural as the sun rising.

Before Robb leaves, he grips onto Jeyne, pulling her closer to him. “Open your gift alone,” he orders. He pushes back her hair. “I want to see it on you tonight.” He lets her go. The young wolf departs reluctantly, finalizing his exit with hugs and tokens of affection towards his other, full blooded siblings.

Jeyne shivers despite the heat of his breath. Robb’s hands were… _rough,_ like the fur of a seasoned wolf, his tone was almost _sharp_ , like the fangs of bloodthirsty predator. Unbeknownst to the crowd, her undergarments are soaked from the juices dripping out of her cunt. She stares hungrily at her brother’s backside, imagining the night to come.

During their mid-meal, Lord Stark presents his children with their gifts. There is nothing extraordinarily extravagant about the presents, but each one catered to the whims of the Stark children. Resources are scarce in the North, and the further they go, the less fertile the lands become. Fortunately, the Last Hearth is surrounded by rivers and forests, which meant miles and miles of lumber and by association, fuel. For their loyalty and their dedication against the wildlings, the Umbers and their people are given primary access to their use.

Bran and Rickon receive expertly crafted toys for their pleasures, war horses and toy soldiers. Sansa has minor trinkets and charms and an engraved mirror, while Lady Stark receives a lovely jewelry box with a mother of pearl lining to add to her collection. Her gift is the finest of them all. Jeyne sees that Robb has taken her advice with Arya, (“give her something pointy” she recalls), and Robb gets Arya a wooden dagger. Not dangerous by any means, but enough to keep her entertain until she had the real thing (which Jeyne will guarantee).

Jeyne’s gift is wrapped in cloth. She does not open it, per Robb’s request, yet it is cradled preciously in her hands. She stays when her siblings open their souvenirs. With a patient eye, she watches her little brothers play together. She sees Arya’s mocking gaze as Sansa admires herself in her new mirror, and Sansa’s distasteful glance at the younger Northerner’s new tool. They are separated in more than age, and Jeyne will not make any attempts to rectify this. Their love for her is stronger when they are apart, and Jeyne is a fool not to take advantage.

Her opportunity to excuse herself is presented when one of the maids come in, informing her that the room is ready for them. She clasps the hand of the servant girl to remind the young woman that they are not so different in name, but thanks her primly, to show that they are.

Jeyne announces to the little Starks the location of their party. Their faces light up in glee as they cheer for the upcoming festivities, however minor. Having a party for themselves, ones that are not namedays, feels foreign to them. Moreover, it is exciting, adult-like. They are happy, and their love for her grows. She pockets her gift into her dress before turning to the door.

The gesture does not go unnoticed.

“Why don’t you open your gift?” Bran asks curiously. He eyes her dress pocket with a bit of giddy apprehension. He knew Robb would not forget Jeyne. She is their sister, regardless of what their mother wanted to believe.

Jeyne smiles tensely. She reverts back to her usual grace and lies through her teeth. “It is not my place to do so,” Jeyne tells him, “This event should be for the Starks of Winterfell.”

And I am not a Stark, Jeyne muses. _Yet_ , was unspoken and unheard. It is a line she recites often, through word and action. Bran looks down on his gift dejectedly, as if he had done something wrong. His heart is pure, and Jeyne believes herself cruel for bringing that look into his eyes. Yet, when she observes that the other children have followed through with the mood, Jeyne reacts for her cause. She caresses her little brother’s cheek, in a far more platonic manner than Robb has ever done for her, and kisses his forehead.

“My sweet knight,” Jeyne soothes, “Do not worry about me. I much rather open it in the confidence of my own room.” There are no truer words, but she allows her brother to believe they were said for his relief.

The plan is ruined when Lady Stark speaks.

“Open the gift.”

Jeyne's tongue runs dry. 

“Robb bought it for you alongside his siblings,” Lady Stark observes coldly. Her demeanor is proud, as if she has found a loophole in Jeyne’s little game. “On behalf of my son, I’ll allow it this time.”

“Lady Stark, I don’t believe it’s appropriate-“

“No,” the Tully born woman interjects. Her tone is as calm as a spring day but her eyes are determined. You will not make me the villain, they say. “I insist.”

Jeyne hands do not tremble in apprehension. She will not show her guilt or prove Lady Catelyn's intuition wise. She prays her love’s gift is not too intimate, not too revealing. Lady Stark has read their signs like a prophet and now wants affirmation of their dalliance. The children are naive, and look at her with thrilled eyes.

Jeyne unravels the cloth slowly. The wrapping covers the mystery in a way that is secure but unappealing. The fabric itself is cheap, something one would use as a dirty washcloth or a rag on the side. Jeyne was not offended when she received it, knowing the greater treasure it held. As the layers fall to the side, there, in the palm of her hand, was wooden egg.

The scales resembled that of a dragon’s egg, at least the ones seen in the paintings of Aegon the Conqueror and other representations of Targaryen folklore. The craftsmanship is extremely lovely, with every detailed done to the finest. The scales are organized perfectly around the egg and the engravings are placed in a matter that is tasteful but non intrusive to the overall artwork.

 _When the moon breaks, may your wings soar._ It reads.

It is not a gift someone gives to a lover.

Jeyne turns to her half-siblings, who praise her gift. She looks at Lady Stark, who seems both relieved and humiliated. She is proven wrong about them once more, and while she is grateful her suspicions are unfounded, neither of them are disillusioned enough to believe it will not happen again.

Jeyne leaves to put away her gift. When she reaches her room, it takes all her energy not to throw the damn egg against the wall. The present reminds Jeyne of all she has accomplished- _nothing_. The memory of this morning’s embrace, of Robb’s lips on her are mere shadows compared to the reality in front of her. She is his sister, nothing more. The worst part of it was that Lady Stark seemed to be aware of their relationship as well. Perhaps, they are both delusional, imagining nightmares and fantasies while awake. Jeyne retreats to her bed, fatigued by the circumstances. She does not dare face Robb, not at her stage of grief. As she inspects the egg again, her door slams open to reveal Lady Stark, whose eyes are mad with suspicion. It is so sudden, that it does not occur to Jeyne that the woman had _followed_ her to her room.

“What was it?” She screeches. She grabs onto Jeyne’s arms and digs her nails into her skin. The aggression forces Jeyne off her bed. Had her reflexes not kicked it, Jeyne would have been dragged to her knees. Instead, Jeyne manages to get a grasp on her footing. “What did he give you?” She hears Lady Catelyn ask again. 

“Lady Stark-“ Jeyne tries to answer. 

“Do not think me a fool!” Lady Stark interrupts. She begins to shake Jeyne ruthlessly. The Tully woman is stronger than Jeyne cares to admit, and Jeyne wonders if it is because of her emotional state or Jeyne's inability to defend herself. Lady Catelyn could have been carving letters into her chest and Jeyne would not have the power to fight back.  “What did Robb give you?”

“Nothing,” Jeyne denies vehemently, “Lady Stark, you saw the gift-!”

“I saw an act,” the Stark woman announces, “I saw a smokescreen he used to fool me. _We_ are not blind, Jeyne!” The red haired woman takes hold of her gift. Jeyne struggles against her. She loves Robb, and even an unpleasant gift, one that served only to remind her of the negativity of her circumstances, is still precious.

“Lady Stark, he gave me nothing!” Jeyne defends herself. It is the truth, and for the life of her, she cannot think of a reason to get the woman to believe her. “Just the egg, just this! Please, believe me!”

They continue fighting until Jeyne can feel Lady Stark’s nails scrap against her skin. Her talons had pierced her dress and are now forming marks. She might be bleeding. At any rate, the battle would only escalate. Jeyne submits, letting go.

Catelyn spends a good deal of time inspecting it. Jeyne holds her breath. The highborn lady twists it and turns it, attempts to pull it apart to no success. Finally, she tosses it to the side, resulting in a loud, revolting crack. Jeyne watches the item chip and a piece of it lands to the side.

Jeyne remains frozen.

Lady Stark turns to her, with the ferociousness of a biding storm cloud. “Do you think you’re so clever?”

Jeyne only stares at the broken eggshell. She says nothing.

“I asked you a question.”

Jeyne turns to her with blank eyes. “Not as clever as you think I am, my lady.”

Catelyn almost slaps her for her insolence. Instead, she looks at her with a victorious sneer. “I think _nothing_ of you. You should not be here. You should have never been born. You are a mistake that my husband could not turn his back on and are a plague upon my children. What do you hope to take from them?”

“I have taken _nothing_ ,” Jeyne responds severely. There is nothing that is not hers to take in the first place. No matter how much Catelyn tries to deny it, she is the daughter of Lord Stark, the blood of the First Men runs through her veins, more so than they will ever do her.

“Do you love my son?” Catelyn asks.

“Yes.” It is the most honest answers she has ever given Lady Stark. She will not lie, not when it bore no fruit. “I do, Lady Stark.” _You know this,_ Jeyne does not say.

“Do you believe I love my son?”

“More than anything.” And she does, Lady Catelyn would die and kill for her children, launch wars if she had the power, and destroy kingdoms if it was necessary.  It is the only thing Jeyne and her have in common. It is the only reason Lady Stark has allowed her to reside amongst her brood for so long, and it is the only way she has the right to stay with them as lovingly as she could.

“Then, you know how far I would go to protect him. How I would move the heavens and the earth to save him from you and from himself. I will not let you seduce him to ruin, Jeyne,” the declaration is as serious as her prayers and Jeyne believes every word of it.

“Lady Stark, there is nothing for me beyond these walls. In no way do I seek to displease you or Lord Stark. Please, believe me. Robb is my brother. I love him, but only as a sister should. There is no scandal, no treachery against the gods. We love each other in the purest form.”

Lady Stark is unconvinced, but without evidence. Instead, she casts an eye on the broken wood shards and the cracked egg, all done by her own means. “His love is too good for you.”

The words spoken are cold and cruel. They are heartbreaking for a girl who is as much in love as Jeyne is. Lady Stark leaves immediately afterwards, sated by Jeyne’s desolate expression.

Jeyne does not recover for a while, opting to sit on her bed in contemplation. Finally she swallows up her pride to pick up the pieces of her lost treasure. She cannot throw it away, but perhaps she could find a craftsman to fix it up for her. The bastard picks up the shards closest to her first, before grabbing the larger body. It is then she notices a gleam inside it.

Fishing her fingers inside the crevice, Jeyne picks up a chain from inside the egg. Once pull out completely, Jeyne’s fingers become interlaced with a beautiful teardrop pendant made out of moonstone. The opaque glow bounces beautifully from the limited lighting of the room and sparkled onto Jeyne’s skin. The necklace is far too fine to be from the Last Hearth, implying that it was bought elsewhere.

She checks the mirror and places it against her skin. It is her color, Jeyne stares in awe. She’s never owned anything so beautiful. Jeyne’s expression is almost ecstatic. She has never been fond of overly expensive objects, but Jeyne is one who can read of message.

This is a gift for a lover.

Jeyne admires the necklace on top of her bosom and makes a plan to avoid Lady Stark for the time being. After her little speech, it would not do any good to bump into her wearing it. She’d know it was from Robb for sure. She reminds herself to make a stop at Beth’s work room before visiting the heir. With the proof she wanted, Jeyne needs to take care of Lady Stark using more of Beth’s _discreet_ methods.

By the time Robb finishes his lessons (most of the time taken up by hours of lessons on _how to_ rather than actually _do_ ), dinner time has already past. He resolves to take a bath, per Jeyne’s suggestion, before actually meeting up with her and his siblings.

The maids are accommodating. The baths are connected to the hot springs below, and they pump it into the basin for him. From the corner of his eye, he watches them float around skittishly as he undresses. He is far too tired to be modest about his body, and seeks only to enjoy the feeling of hot water on his skin. It is only when they leave, though, that he feels his bones stop aching and he can finally enjoy himself.

After a few minutes, he allows his mind to drift away. In his half-dream state, he thinks of Jeyne. He wonders if she has found his true gift yet, if she is wearing his mark now. He had bought that necklace for her ages ago, unable to think of a reason to give it to her until he saw that half-formed egg, modeled after a dragon’s lay. His mother would never allow it to be gifted, but he knew it was destined for her. Even now, he could fantasize about how the gleaming stone would look upon her bountiful breasts, how it would sink into her slit. How thankful she would be once they were together, and he could see her wearing the necklace, and only the necklace.

His daydreams became so vivid that he did not notice his body’s reaction or the sound of entering footsteps.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Jeyne teases mildly. Robb awakens with a startle. He makes a move to cover himself but deep under water, there was no need for it. Truthfully, Jeyne could not possibly see his reaction but the look on his face told her everything she needed to know about what he was dreaming of.

She walks over to him, this time in a less formal, more everyday dress that he was used to. He was not disappointed, though, when he sees a familiar piece of ornament around her neck.

“I see you found my gift,” Robb observes, drinking in the sight of her. “Do you like it?”

“It is the loveliest thing I’ve ever owned,” Jeyne admits. From the side, she grabs a sponge left behind by one of the maids. Robb stares at her curiously, before watching her lather it with soap. It is a truly pleasant delight when she starts scrubbing the grime off Robb’s body. “Allow me to show my thanks.”

She brushes her lips against his wet neck, earning her a pleased groan from Robb. “You have my permission,” he murmurs helplessly. He can feel her smile against his skin as she moves around his chest and to his lower body. Jeyne then puts some more soap on the sponge and starts to rub, using gentle round movements that makes Robb tilt his head back in pleasure. “Jeyne…”

“You must be so sore, my lord,” Jeyne suggests sweetly. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Robb submits easily into her hands. Internally, he knows they are both doomed if anyone were to walk in on them now, but the touch of Jeyne’s hands and sound of her voice is overwhelming all his senses. He only wishes they were on even playing ground, instead of her being fully clothed, bathing him. The one who is in control is obvious, and yet he cannot find a reason to complain.

For a while neither one says anything, the only sounds are of the water splashing quietly whenever Jeyne wets her sponge. She then heads even lower and presses her body further against his back. Previously, she was kneeling behind Robb in order to gain access to his chest and back. Now, she is by his sides, pressing her agile hands against his thighs. He hitches a breath at her position.

“Are you nervous, Robb?” She suckles at his shoulder temptingly.

“No,” Robb answers without thinking. Doing so, is both the best and worst mistake he’s ever made. He feels her dip into a position more intimate than she’s ever gone. Traveling further south, she lets go of her sponge and clasps onto something of much higher value to both of them.

“Jeyne-“

“Shh…someone might hear us if we’re not too careful,” Jeyne advises, not a shard of guilt or wrongdoing in her voice. It is almost insanely too calm, and Robb feels himself losing control because of it. Jeyne does not allow it, though. She kisses his neck, whispering soft seductions that his mind cannot comprehend, focusing too much on the feeling of his cock in her hands.

She grips onto his manhood firmly before stroking it. The movements are languid and precise and Robb has barely any time to comprehend it, viewing the situation as more of a fantasy above anything else. Robb is so lost in the moment that he does not realize his hips moving subconsciously along, with the thickness of his dick sliding through Jeyne’s fingers. She jerks Robb faster and harder, relishing in the feeling of having her hand fucked. She uses her spare hand to squeeze his sacs. She can feel her own wetness slip through her thighs and presses them together to ease the ache. When the friction proves not enough, Jeyne removes the hands from his balls to her own needs. It is more than a little difficult, but no less pleasurable when she begins to rub herself while massaging Robb. She presses the pad of her middle finger against her clit and slides it back and forth. She’s so wet, and she presses down, harder, and rolls her hips in tiny little circles.

She wants to focus on Robb, first, though, and works to bring him to release faster. When he is about to cum, Jeyne flicks the top of fingers against his head to keep him from release.

“Please, Jeyne-“ Robb begs faintly.

It is then Jeyne places her lips upon him, sloppy with their tongues meshing lazily. It is filthier than anything they have done so far and both savor the debauchery of it. On the verge of orgasm, Jeyne whispers into his ear.

“This is just the beginning," Jeyne promises. Robb's breaths are harsh and unsteady, and the sound of submission almost makes Jeyne cum from itself. "When you finally have me, do not treat me like a doll. Fuck me like I’m your woman, because that’s what I am. I belong to you, Robb and you belong to me.”

Robb makes a noise of acceptance.

“Robb?” Jeyne questions, her grip steadfast.

“You’re mine,” He divulges breathlessly. Jeyne strokes him once more, pushing him to say it again. To her surprise, he grabs her face and presses their lips together, rougher than their earlier kiss. This was a crime of passion to Jeyne’s own premeditated actions. He lets her go, eyes staring straight at her.

“You’re mine, Jeyne,” he repeats, serious as death.

She lets him cum. When the wet, thick strands coat her fingers, Jeyne bites her lips. The thought of getting fucked by that dick, having those strands inside her, on her, almost makes her cum herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another apology. I can't say it enough but I’m sorry for not updating and basically putting this story on hiatus without warning. Thank you for sticking by this story and I am grateful to all the readers who inspire me and enjoy this so much that you make me remember how much I enjoy writing it. Thank you. On another note, I’m really happy to be continuing this story, and finally getting to the more serious, plot-forwarding parts. Everything is set in motion now, and eventually (though not immediately) there will be a time skip.


	13. Chapter 13

Arya rides as if death is on her heels. She is fierce in competition, and Jeyne’s heart pounds with pride. Her unwavering tenacity, her will to win, her determination to exceed expectations and norms are gifts handed down to her by her ancestors. Robb is the same way. Jeyne loves riding with Arya because, despite their distance to each other, Robb and Arya are twins when they ride. They are the greatest within their pack of cubs, and Jeyne must foster this greatness. One day, Robb will lead battles on his steed. She expects Arya to do the same.

The two girls maneuver their way out of the forest with little effort. Arya has the advantage within the woods; her smaller stature allows her to weave through the decaying vines and shift through the trunks with greater ease. Jeyne conserves her strength. She throws a glance behind, making sure that Bran was still behind them. The three of them had decided to take this excursion as a reward for finishing their duties early. Once confirming his petite figure in the background, Jeyne returns to the race. She’ll let Arya take the lead for now. When they leave the wilderness is where the true battle begins.

Jeyne and Arya race using the three checkpoints Jeyne and Robb developed as children. The first was at the riverbank within the forest, the perfect resting stop for their mares to rest alongside refreshments, the second was at the entrance to the forest. The last were the gates of Winterfell, which is where Jeyne's riding holds supreme. On an open plain, it is speed that reigns over agility.

Arya wins the first round.

“You’re getting old, Jeyne,” Arya teases, hiding her harsh breathing behind her mockery.

Jeyne scowls, though it held no malice. If anything, she is pleased by her darling protégé. “How can I expect to win in a forest with a dwarf? Some people have to duck to avoid branches!”

Arya laughs, “You’re just sore loser!” She brings the horse closer to the water and climbs off. Jeyne follows and allows her own mare relief.

“Should we start as soon as they finish resting?” Arya implores excitingly, hoping to finish off her sister once again.

Jeyne laughs at her eagerness. “Let’s wait until Bran gets here.”

 “But he’ll take forever!” Arya whines.

“Then forever we’ll wait,” Jeyne counters lightly, ignoring Arya’s pout. She notices the sun ending its rounds. Turning around to survey the area, Jeyne confirms that her little brother is nowhere in sight. Bran is not the fastest rider within the Stark lineage, but he is hardly slow. He knew the checkpoints as well. Could he have gotten lost?

“Could you meet at the entrance of the forest, Arya? I’m going to check up on Bran. He may have gotten lost.”

Arya’s brow furrows, torn between her concern for Bran and her disappointment that their race would be cut short. “Do you think he’s okay?” she asks, her instincts as an older sister winning over.

Jeyne smiles reassuringly. “He probably got distracted by a pair of wings. You know how he is.”

Arya nods, suddenly annoyed by her brother’s carelessness. She wants to say something, but Jeyne cuts her short in case she means something callous.

“Do not get too comfortable, Arya and do not wait until dark for me. I want you in Winterfell before the sky touches twilight. There’s nothing but crooks and bandits in the dark.”

Arya nods obediently.

Jeyne climbs onto her horse and turns. With one final look, she calls out to Arya. “Oh, and the second I reach the entrance, Arya, we will be racing. Do not let your guard down!” She warns playfully. Arya’s face lights up at the prospect and gallops to the ends of the forest.

\--

It takes Jeyne far longer than she would have liked to retrace her steps. She did not think she left Bran that far behind when she started racing Arya. Every foot further into the forest led to a growing pit of distress inside her. Finally, after a few dozen more feet, Jeyne’s eye catches the figure of her little brother. She urges her horse further, calling out Bran’s name. Her voice held no power within the magic of the woods. Up close, she sees Bran watching the sky, the sun’s eyes peering directly where he stood. Dancing on his figure like an apostle blessed by the gods, Bran could hear nothing.

“Bran!” Jeyne calls for him again.

No response.

Jeyne rides up to where he was, mind overwhelmed with worry. “Bran, did you not hear me?” She clasps onto the Stark’s arm and he turns to her. Jeyne gasps.

Bran’s eyes were completely blank. 

“Bran!” She shouts, unable to control herself. She backs up, startling Bran’s horse. The beast, shaken by the movement, begins to act recklessly. It tosses the body on top of him, and without the support of a conscious mind, Bran is almost a victim to a terrible fall.

Jeyne pulls over just in time to catch him in her arms.

“…Jeyne?” She hears his soft voice mutters. His eyes, which were once murky with blindness opens to the color of the clearest skies. Jeyne makes a quick prayer to the Old Gods.

“Bran, are you alright?” She feels his forehead for a fever. Nothing. His eyes are completely back to normal as well, not even a hint of fatigue.

“I’m fine…” Bran tells her, sounding just as unsure as she was. “What happened?”

“Do you not remembered?”

He tries to get up. “I only remember riding with you and Arya and then I thought I saw…I saw something but I don’t…I don’t remember what it was or what happened. Where’s Arya?” He curved his head to look for his older sister to no luck. “Is she okay? Did something happened-?”

“Arya is fine!” Jeyne answers, sounding more panic then she would have ever liked to. “She’s at the entrance of the forest. We couldn’t find you so I decided to go back. You really don’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

“No!” Bran retorts, voice high and ashamed. Jeyne doesn’t believe him, which worries her. Bran has never lied her to her.

“Bran, you acted like a man possessed. Your eyes were like pearls, you cannot simply tell me that you don’t remember or know anything about this?”

“I don’t!” He shouts. He takes a deep breath. “I never do…” he tells her, softer this time.

She grabs his shoulders harshly. “What do you mean by that?”

Bran turns away from her.

“Bran,” she commands seriously.

“They’re just dreams!” Bran defends. “Bits and pieces of strange images, usually of the forests. Nothing serious. I don’t have night walks or anything of the sort! I’m fine!”

Jeyne is far from convinced. “We need to see a healer immediately. If this goes on, who knows how strongly it will take over your body. What if you were older and in battle? What if you were racing your horse?”

“Please don’t tell anybody!” Bran pleads. “Not the healers. Not the priests. Not father or mother or even Robb.”

Jeyne can feel the panic radiating from the boy.

“Please,” he begs once more.

The reluctance on Jeyne’s face is overwhelming. Finally, she relents and nods to Bran’s relief. “It will be our secret.”

Bran smiles gratefully and readies his horse. Before he could ride some more, Jeyne clasps onto his arm. “If I find out that this _thing_ has become danger to your being, not even the Gods will bind my tongue, do you understand?”

Bran nods frantically, both eager for the second chance and fearful of keeping his promise.

Jeyne sighs and begins to lead. “Come, we need to get back before dark.” She will stop by the stream so that Bran’s horse can drink and then race to Winterfell to not to keep Arya waiting.

__

Arya tries her best not to get distracted when waiting for Jeyne. Yet as the skies grow darker and the sun begins to set, Arya can’t help but stare and wonder. Why is it taking so long for Jeyne to find Bran? Surely, he couldn’t have been that much further behind them. Is he lost? Is Jeyne lost? She has half a mind to turn back and save the two when the sounds of dashing horses rush past her. In a whirlwind entrance, her older speeds past the forests of Winterfell and into the open road. Bran is tagging alongside her, desperately trying to keep up and failing.

Arya immediately sets her horse to move but she’s at a horrible disadvantage. Jeyne slows down to allow Bran to head up. Arya can see her say something to their body and Bran nods, going ahead of them. When Arya finally gains the lead, Jeyne has only begun to ride again, not at all worried.

“I told you not to let your guard down, my lady,” Jeyne teases.

“I am not a lady! And that was cheating!” Arya defends. “I wasn’t prepared.”

“And now you have a handicap,” Jeyne notes pleasantly. Arya notices that Jeyne is hardly going at full speed-not if she can talk. “But of course, I do have a face to save of my own. I’ll see you at Winterfell, little lady!”

And Jeyne rides forward. Arya can barely shout “I am not a lady!” fast enough for Jeyne to nearly be out of sight. They race all the way to Winterfell, with Arya catching up a number of respectable times. Nonetheless, as the sounds of hooves filled the fortress, the winner is clear. 

“Can anyone beat you?” Arya huffs out as she sinks against her horse.

“Your brother can,” Jeyne answers proudly. The men of the stables help Arya off her horse. Bran is waiting there and gives Jeyne a victory hug upon her arrival.

“I knew you’d win,” Bran tells her, earning a smack on the head from Arya. “Hey!” He protests.

Jeyne tells Bran to get cleaned up. She turns to Arya with a smile. “That was a close match. You got the lead several times.”

Arya’s eyes light up at the compliment before putting on a determined expression. “I’ll beat you next time.”

“I look forward to it,” Jeyne laughs. “And to the time after that and a hundred rides after that.”  

“Would you really do that for me?” Arya asks longingly.

“Of course I would, Arya,” And Jeyne means it. “I want you to compete with women for something other than a man.”

Jeyne she takes her horse to the stables. The stable boys protest against it and immediately head over to her side to take it off her hands. When she affectionately touches their cheeks and thanks them, their faces flush with infatuation and pride. Arya watches with furrow brows.

“Why do you do that?”

Jeyne doesn’t ask what ‘that’ is. “They’re doing a service that is not require of them. A little affection goes a long way in terms of reputation, Arya.”

“It is their job,” Arya points out though. Her high breeding slipping through against her wishes.

Jeyne doesn’t see it that way. “It is their job to cater to the horses of the Starks and of the knights. Not bastards.”

“But you are a Stark,” Arya argues, a little more desperately, as if she says it out loud, it would be true. “You may not carry the name but you’re my sister all the same.”

“It means the world to me that you think that,” Jeyne responds honestly. “But the world is not as kind as you. If they were, we would not have good men die in wars and women being sold off like cattle.”

Arya wants to respond but closes her mouth, unable to argue. Jeyne regrets saying it, knowing that she soured the mood. She reaches for her bag, only to find it missing. She must have left it on her saddle. Stroking Arya’s cheek, she promises to continue their conversation another time. In the distant, distant future. For now, she has to go to the stables to get her knapsack. Arya permits her to go without fuss, doesn’t even offer to tag along, feeling grimy and dirty from the forest.

Jeyne finds her bag easily. The stable boys had been fighting for the opportunity to return it. When she arrived, Jeyne pours the compliments on as if she were the rain of love. Their chests puffed up at having done the Beauty of Winterfell a favor. Suddenly, the stable master calls for their attention outside. Jeyne waves them off as if she were the lady and they were knights.

Before she can follow them outside, she is dragged into an empty stall. Her assailant wraps his arms around her, one across her waist and another groping her chest. She feels his lips suckling on her neck, biting into her flesh. When she turns her head to get a better view, their lips meet. She parts hers slightly, just enough for the man to taste her. She licks his tongue, sucks on it as if it were water in a desert. The man’s hands creep its way into her undergarments. He strokes her throbbing clit slowly and tantalizingly. He squeezes her breast with her other hand.

They part for breath. “You are far too defenseless if you allow a man to touch you like this,” Robb whispers lowly into her ear.

Jeyne takes a forceful step back so that she hits the wall. The momentum shocks Robb to let go of her and she spins around so that they are facing each other. “I always know your kisses, my lord.”

She pulls him into a kiss before gently separating herself. A parting gift, almost. "Not today," Jeyne advises. Before Jeyne could leave the stall, Robb grabs onto her hand.

“When?” Robb asks, overly eager.

“When my lord has learned the virtue of patience.”

The jest unsettles something in Robb. He stops her from leaving by drawing her back into her arms. Once again, her back is pressed against his chest while her body faces the door. “If this is a game, Robb, I am not playing-“

“I have been practicing that virtue for three months, Jeyne,” Robb growls at her. “I want.”

His voice sets vibrations against her entire being. Forceful. In Control. Demands, not asks. Close and aware of her surroundings, Jeyne can smell his arousal. The dirt on his skin that blends with the Winterfell air overwhelms even the worst of the stable’s odors. When she whimpers, she can feel something rise. Every ounce of her self-control is put into her limbs. She elbows him in the chest and overpowers him to the door.

“You had to wait three months?” Jeyne mocks, her breath rubbing against his face. “I had to wait _years_.”

Robb’s eyes widen.

“Women grow faster than men, and bastard girls are the worst of them,” Jeyne reveals. “I have been waiting for your flesh upon mines since I was a child. You do not get to demand _that_ from me.” Realizing her revelation, Jeyne marches outside.

Robb can’t help himself. He grabs and kisses her, in full view now that they were outside. They are both fortunate that no one is there.

They separate.

“That was reckless,” Jeyne warns him, without bite. The months of waiting and teasing have done everything to their self-control. She cannot even hold the same resolve she does in her lectures.

“I know,” Robb agrees. “I’ll hold back next time.”

Jeyne can sense his shame. Not for loving her, or kissing her. But for falling into temptation, for risking their relationship because of his lack of control.

“When you become the Lord of Winterfell, you can have me,” Jeyne reminds him. “You can have me whenever you wish, wherever you wish. The stables, the citadel, the forests, anywhere you can dream of. I’ll be yours and no one can stop you.”

“That will take years,” Robb whines. He kisses her shoulder, confident that after the kiss, there was little to hide from in the stables.

Jeyne laughs in response. “Then perhaps, you shall learn patience by then.” She takes his hand this time, and leads him outside. The fresh atmosphere felt heavy.

“It feels as if I am being punished,” Robb begins. Jeyne frowns, wondering why he was so obsessed with this issue.

“Robb-“

“We belong together,” he cuts her off. “I’ve known this since I was child. I didn't always knew what it was but you did. You knew you were always mine. Now that we know of each’s other love, I must wait forever to prove it to you. How is this not punishment for our sins?"

Jeyne pauses in her response. She’s felt the same way since their confession of love. Nonetheless, she knows her answer. “Between the forces of power and patience, it is patience that wins. I have been patient my entire life and I received you in return. Your love is my gift, Robb, and you are my world. If we are caught…” Jeyne struggles to let out the words. “If we are caught together, it is the end for us. At best, father will send me to the silent sisters and at worst, your mother will have me killed.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen to you.”

“And how could you stop it?” Jeyne asks, a little on edge. “You overestimate you power as heir. Lord Stark has two other boys who can inherit. He loves you but he wouldn’t let the good name of Winterfell be slandered by an incestuous affair.”

Robb frowns, mulling over her words. Jeyne doesn’t know what’s wrong with her today. Her tongue appears to enjoy making everyone miserable around her.

“I cannot lose you, Robb,” Jeyne confesses. “As lord, you can refuse any marriage offer, take any woman you want as yours. I cannot be your wife but I can be by your side. Our bastards can rule as long as you don’t have any heirs…unless you plan to make me your mistress?” She suggests, half-joking and half-serious. It is a thought that has crossed her mind.

“I would never betray you,” Robb promises her.

Good. “And I will not be your whore.”

Robb bemoans his situation. “If I could, I would run away with you. Change my name, go to where no one has even heard of the Stark legacy, build a house in the Summer Isles…”

“Live near the sea, become fishermen and have a dozen children…” Jeyne plays along. “I would have liked that.”

“But that would never work, would it?” Robb concludes wistfully. "They'd catch us before we'd reach the gates." 

“If you had proposed to me as children, I would have packed my bags and allowed you to sweep me off my feet,” Jeyne replies honesty.

“We are not children.”

“No, we are not.” Jeyne laughs remorsefully. “We are smarter, we see the world in shades of gray than pure white. You have a duty to your people and I have a duty to you.”

Robb sighs wistfully. “If we get caught, it might be our only chance at happiness.”

“Until then.”

Robb nods in agreement. For a second, his eyes latch onto something in the distance. He catches his attention far longer than he would need to and Jeyne wonders if there’s someone around, something they should be worried about.

Suddenly, she is pulled into a kiss.

“Robb!” She protests, pushing him away. She smacks him playfully on the chest. “We are in the open!” She hisses.

“I checked!” Robb defends himself, hands in the air in surrender. They walk to the fortress without much trouble later, Robb teasingly trying to kiss her. It made Jeyne’s heart race for all the wrong reasons. Eventually, they begin to see other life and knew they should stop.

A shadow passes over the castle.

“It’s getting darker. The night has come almost an hour earlier than last month,” Jeyne notes.

Robb shrugs, “Winter is coming. It had to eventually.”

For some reason, Jeyne thinks of Bran and his strange behavior. How his mind fell into a trance. When she saw them, she thought it resembled the clouds. Instead, she realizes, it was the color of fallen snow.

“What’s wrong?” Robb asks.

“Nothing.”

She thinks back to the forest, alone with Bran. She didn’t acknowledge it then, but for a second, she swore she hears something fierce in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for not being here for so long but thanks for all the hope and support that went into this story. That’s why I regret saying that I am about fifty percent sure I’m discontinuing this story. Not a full hundred. It actually started as seventy five percent sure but as I was writing this, it became more enjoyable so I went down to fifty percent. So in reality, it's more like a hiatus than a full discontinued story. Maybe one day I will continue it. I’m not discounting that possibility which is why I won’t take it down and is also why I left it on this point. This is the chapter right before the plotline of Game of Thrones start. So if I do start writing this again, I know exactly where to start. 
> 
> I am sorry for doing this. I know a lot of people love this story and I know how it feels to see a piece of work get discontinued but sometimes shit happens. As I stated, I’m not saying this will never be finished but the hiatus on this thing will be ridiculously long. Thank you for your wonderful comments and I hope you can forgive me. –bows miserably-

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted this story (don't ask how it just happened) and now I lost all my great comments. I'm so sorry! and I'm super depressed right now.


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